


The Domestic Vampire

by Kitty_Cats_With_Knives



Category: Vampyr (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood, Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Blood and Injury, Gay Sex, Geoffrey can't eat his food properly, He has a bad diet, Jonathan is a mumma bird, Just all the things you can do with blood basically., M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-07-04 01:48:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15831255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitty_Cats_With_Knives/pseuds/Kitty_Cats_With_Knives
Summary: Jonathan has to teach Geoffrey McCullum how to be a vampire.You can lead a Vampire horse to blood but you can't make it drink.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So Jonathan ate a bunch of people  
> Ashbury threw herself into a fire  
> And McCullum became a vampire.
> 
> That’s all the back-story you fucking need. And it sets the tone for this horrible, terrible story. Your probably better off doing something else than reading this literary vomit that my brain expels from its bowels.
> 
> Don’t enjoy.

Jonathan Reid was the picture of resplendent symmetry. A perfectly lined silhouette of shade and hunger against a moonlit night sky, with the raging clouds spilling over the misty town and over it’s equally misty inhabitants. Reid cast his eyes across the cityscape and took in the throb and ebb of vermillion circulatory systems as they stemmed outward from that dreamy, pulsing paradise of a muscle they called a heart. Every single living person was a self sustained oasis in this bleak, industrial farm of nothingness.

Jonathan could feel the lifeblood of every inhabitant as it travelled to and fro from the heart to each limb and muscle that depended entirely on the busy little muscle to sustain life functions. And it was this liquid rapture that also helped sustain Reid’s own unnatural heart beat.

On the rooves of the creaking buildings the good doctor watched his prey like a cat on the prowl. Reid, since his rebirth under the teeth of his maker Myrddin, had become more predator than he had been as a mortal man. For it is an undeniable fact the most dangerous creature is man, for the busy machinations of the human brain is a dangerous component of any organism. But in the skull of humanity it becomes a truly lurid and unpredictable machine of agony and disaster.

The world war had been evidence enough to prove such a fact, war machines capable of the most unfathomable annihilation coupled with the poison of civilised politics and the greed of men made for a truly wicked amalgamation that would churn the stomach of any thinking creature. If that hadn’t been enough the epidemic of Spanish flu had only added further injury to the wound, turning the landscape of mankind into an efficient engine of misery and suffering. It was as if someone had set fire to every mind and soul of mankind. And ever since Reid’s battle with the red queen and his meeting with William Marshall, more dead than undead, Reid knew that it was infact this fire of sorts that set man and woman into a frenzy of hate. Quite literally their blood boiled and seethed with no thoughts other than infecting every last living man with this virile form of utter antipathy.

Reid had wondered the nature of hatred that the red queen felt for her spawn. What manner in which she hated that made it so virile and contagious? To so easily cause any woman or man, no matter race or creed, to feel so keenly nothing but loathing for their fellow man? Was it a hatred that could only be borne from a mother? Or was it a twisted form of love? Like the instance of Carolyn Price and her poor daughter?

The thought of Carolyn Price brought Reid back to his current position. Back to the reason why Reid found himself surveying his hunting ground. Reid twisted his tongue around his protruding fangs and felt keenly the constant companion that was the peculiar hunger tugging at his guts. He had spied his target, a newly admitted member of the Wet Boys Boots gang about to execute an order given to him by the lovely leader of the miscreant group. Reid jumped from roof to roof, leaving a black mist in his wake as he travelled as swift as the weak wind accompanying the rainfall. His red, cat like eyes kept a constant watch on the vascular system of his prey. Adin Gough, 21 and newly recruited as part of the Wet Boys Boots gangs aggressive enlisting programme recently implemented ever since Reid had taken quite a significant bite out of their numbers.

If there was one thing you could be sure of, criminal organizations were always in need of desperate sort of characters. And London was a place where desperate souls exceeded the required amount. And being a criminal establishment meant dying was par of the course and would never be investigated with any great trouble as opposed to other organizations. Reid wasn’t about to starting eating members of parliament because that was essentially akin to going out in public, absent any clothes, furiously masturbating over the headless body of an overweight coal magnate. 

It was a fucking bad idea, is what it was.

So Reid found his version of a fruit orchard. A sort of blood orchard, where any picked fruit was quickly replaced by more fruit at such a pace you might as well call it the fastest fruiting motherfucking tree you ever heard of. A true freak of nature you might say. 

Much like the vampire tending it’s vines.

Reid jumped from the roof and onto the scaffolding hanging against a brick red apartment building in the Whitechapel district. Reid’s prey was busy trying to stealthily, (without much skill one might add) follow a merchant who had not paid his protection money in recent days and so was ordered to shake the man up till he coughed up a few coins to appease the gang’s ever increasing need for cash. With a knife clenched in his right hand and his overwhelming need to vomit in his left, for the boy was still a boy at 21, the poor fool pressed his back against a corner, turned his head to watch the merchants interactions with a passerby and once the civilian left with a curt nod and a smile the scoundrel threw himself from the wall and ran toward the hefty merchant in his scratchy plaid jacket and shined loafers.

But the ruffian never reached his quarry.

The merchant turned his head quickly when he heard a slight scuffle behind him. He looked intently into the darkness but could see no evidence of man or beast. He took a step toward the shadows but when he was met with a blink of red, cat eyes burning with the fuel of rage and hunger, he was shook to the core and tripped over himself as he raced with the speed unknown to other men of his size and girth to quite literally, run like his life depended on it.

Reid had jumped on his prey, pressed his chest to the wet brick road, twisted his fingers around the boys curly cues, yanked his head to the side and sunk his swollen fangs into the boys pliant, dirt stained flesh. The moment Reid’s fangs found their mark and the boys veins yielded their liquid treasure the good doctor was filled with the only true joy that a vampire could feel in their cold, death like workings. It was all at once the addiction of a drug addict the delight of a connoisseur of fine dining and the pleasure of carnal desires.

It was every pleasure that mortals could feel, pleasure that was within to confines of their biological functions but focused on one substance and one substance only.

Blood.

It was the substance of the fountain of youth, the fruit of the tree of knowledge of life and death and the philosopher’s stone. It was both forbidden and desired, the deadliest of all combinations.

But, like money and drugs it never satisfied one completely and always left you wanting for more. To want something and to get it receiving only a moment of satisfaction was a torture all living organisms could understand. It was the cruelty of life, and the conscious effort accompanying the desire was torture beyond understanding.

At least time was not something Reid was not in want of, something as a mortal, was his most lamented thing.

Reid drank deeply of the boy’s sweet, youthful bounty. The blood of newly matured men was something of a dessert to Jonathan. Post puberty, somehow, made the wine of their veins deepened their aroma, making it both sweet like chocolate but there was an underlining earthiness to it that tempered the richness. It was medium bodied and off dry. The acidity made it crisp and therefore it got Reid’s blood pumping something fierce, something vampire blood rarely did, for it is the blood of a dead thing. It reminded him of when he took that first gasp of cold, decaying air atop the mountain of corpses when he had been reborn and just before he had taken the breath from his dear Mary’s lips.

When the last drop of blood had been drained from the poor boys body Reid got to his feet, rolled his head side to side and around as he felt his skin set alight and his body blaze like an everlasting flame in the eye of some angry god gnashing his teeth on the bones of his flock. Blood dripped down from the corners of his lip and into the dark hair of his beard. The only true downside of a vampire with a beard was the fact liquids were harder to clean off than if it were solid food. Stabbing blood with a fork is a near impossible feat. So Reid had to maintain a fastidious hygiene schedule concerning his illustrious facial hair.

But the beard was fucking worth it because beards.

Reid’s fangs throbbed in his gums as they gloried in the bloodshed that they had caused. The entirety of Reid’s body showed extreme appreciation and acknowledgement of the sacrifice that the prey had bestowed upon them. Reid did not kill without thought. He chose a particular breed of person who were little more than fleas on the back of society’s back. Parasites, if you will. Those members of society who performed outside of the law and with no conscience to rules they were breaking or the owners of the legs they were breaking. 

Alternatively there was also a specific breed of arsehole that was an arsehole because somewhere the stars aligned the moment of their birth and made an arsehole that fed on the despair of others, like Cadogan Bates whom was one of Reid’s first ‘victims’, if you could call him that. His last thought was almost laughable; his pitiable regret that no one ever loved him. Forcing unfortunate women into a position of selling their bodies to pay for impossibly high rent isn’t exactly fertile ground for a meaningful relationship.

It’s sort of the kind of ground for ‘I’m going to slit your throat in your sleep and bathe in it.’ relationship.

Which is what the residents did, in fact, try to do before Reid saved him.

It was the first time Reid actually took pleasure in sinking his fangs into the neck of a human being. It had become Reid’s modus operandi; kill the undeserving of the life in their veins. Murderers, thieves and scoundrels, they were all fair game where Reid was concerned.

And besides, nobody would miss them or acknowledge their absence with any deep feeling. 

 

_________________________________________________________

 

Geoffrey McCullum felt like shit.

And he looked like shit.

The skin on his hands were starting to bruise and he could see the dark shadows gather under and around his eyes like some ill meaning well of void. He pulled at the bags under his eyes and saw the veins striking his pupil like a gathering of lightning. His mouth was dry, his fangs were throbbing and he could barely contain them within his gums anymore. His hands shook with a fierce violence and he couldn’t hide the shakes in his shoulders anymore. He could barely contain them even using every ounce of will in his withering body. He was losing weight rapidly and he was starting to look very much the undead cadaver that popular belief considered when regarding ghouls and monsters in the collective mind of fictional horror.

McCullum looked every bit the penny dreadful villain and he loathed it, oh how he loathed looking like a monster. He was starting to look like those lower forms of vampire life, those god forsaken examples of vampire life form; Skaals.  
Putrid beings of such low conscious thought that McCullum barely considered them to be alive or worthy of breath. They had become such a common nuisance during the epidemic that killing them seemed to do little in abating their numbers.

Even after the epidemic had started to end the Skaals still rose from the earth like rats. McCullum practised every possible violence against these pests. Sliced them, beat them crushed them and then bit them.

He drank their blood and only their blood. Therein his current predicament was borne of this practice.

McCullum was a staunch Guard of Priwen. He loathed the leeches and loathed them with a fury unrivalled by any before him. He had known the violence and the lasting cruelty that Vampires could bestow with their god-forsaken endowment of immortality. Infront of his eyes he was witness to this devastation bestowed to him by his father of all people. He watched his vampire father rip his mothers’ throat out and left McCullum and orphan. But there was one gift his father granted him that he was grateful for: the gift of purpose. The moment his traitorous vampiric father murdered his mother was a moment of clarity and realization.

He knew that his purpose in this seemingly twisted carcass that was the remains of his life was to purge the world of the leech and all his possessions.

Of course it was a bitch of a thing when he found himself above the face of a vampire and said vampire spitting blood into his mouth intent on making him the very thing he loathed so passionately.

What the fuck happened?

And he’d drunk blessed King Arthur’s blood and everything.

Fuck.

If he knew that it was just a prelude to drinking another dead guys blood he’d have skipped the whole thing.

He’d drunk a lot of blood that day for a Priwen Guard.

McCullum turned his head to the side to assess his current situation; Current situation being totally and utterly fucked up is what. The slight blue tinge to hairline above his ear was what worried him the most. Was this what Vampires considered rotting? Since Vampires were technically undead was rotting a normal symptom of this undeath? Or was it considered a sickly and unnatural thing to rot even though one’s body was dead?

McCullum knew instinctively the cause of this discolouring in his skin. He knew the shakes were the shakes of an addict in withdrawal. He’d seen such a thing in Vampires the Guard had captured and tortured for information and other such things one could use against the leeches in a fight for the very survival of humanity as a species.

And now McCullum was considered that very thing that he had sworn, all those years ago in his agony fuelled insight, to purge from this land. He was suddenly struck with a pang of sympathy towards the vampires that he had starved for prolonged periods before ending their lives slowly and efficiently. But he quickly dismissed such empathy toward his sworn enemy because empathy was a starting point to understanding and McCullum was far removed from wanting to understand vampires or their biological issues.

And that was his problem currently, his unwillingness to understand the very thing that he had become. In order to properly function understanding the mechanics of why something functions is an integral part to maintaining its functionality. And thinking that something functions for the sake of doing the devils work is not an apt way to go about understand it. 

For a Vampire blood was what kept him functioning properly and maintaining the machinery of the body, any idiot knew that. And though McCullum was no idiot he of all people knew this essential fact more than others.

McCullum promised himself that he would subsist on the blood of Skaals. He refused to take the life of a human being, refused to drink the blood of the living. He was a vampire, that much he would admit and even though he was loathed to acknowledge it being a vampire came with numerous benefits in regards to the art of vampire hunting. In fact, after becoming a leech McCullum was more effective in exterminating his enemy. Which was a regrettable irony in itself.  
All at once McCullum wanted to scold Reid and thank him all at the same time. he had to wonder whether other leaders of the Priwen Guard had become the thing that they hated in order to carry out the act of hate more skilfully. 

“Sir you look like shit.” A voice rung out in the improvised office set in the tragedy theatre that they had turned upside down in order to accommodate their needs for a makeshift headquarters. McCullum lifted his head from his hand, elbow on the desk and all his weight supported by a trembling arm.

“Christ Baker…” another voice groaned, thoroughly embarrassed.

“Your worry is duly noted.” McCullum growled, attempting to lift his head high in order to feign strength.

“Sir we’re simply worried for you. You haven’t left this room for days and the steward says you haven’t eaten for days on end.” His recruit said with a pleading look on his haggard face. “If you keep going on like this sir-.”

“Save your worry for yourselves, I’m merely indisposed with fatigue. I’ll be fine.”

“Maybe you should see a doctor?” Baker said but was only earned with a nudge to the ribs by his associate. McCullum could barely look at his fellow guards without wanting to eat their stupid faces of. He originally thought he could hide his condition from his men but with a literal buffet running around him asking for his input and advice his plan was coming down around him piece by piece. McCullum covered his face with his hand and rushed to the bathroom interjoined to his office leaving the recruits standing in the middle of the room looking lost and stupid.

“You think he knows that we know he’s a leech-I mean, vampire?” Baker asked.

“No way. If he knew we knew he’d probably suck the blood out our dicks.” His associate groaned. “His pride would demand it.”

“The fuck? Leeches do that?” his fellow asked aghast.

“George might be a prick but he isn’t known to spin tales.”

“Gross. Can you imagine?”

“I can.”

“So…” Baker said with a toe tapping the floorboards. “What do we do? Plan an intervention or something?”

“What?”

“An intervention, like that thing we did for Barry.”

“Barry has a drinking problem. McCullum is a vampire. The two things cannot be interchangeable you arse.”

“I disagree, because a vampire also has a drinking problem.” Bakers associate smacked him.

“Son of a bitch Baker, this is why no one wants to be your partner during patrol.”

___________________________________________________

 

McCullum clutched the dirty sides of the porcelain sink in the bathroom of the theatre dressing room. He hung his head down and stared at the sinkhole. It was encrusted with rust and McCullum fantasised that it was old bloodstains and the hunger in his guts roared like a bitter beast. McCullum clutched his side and let out a strangled groan.

Christ what he’d give for a bite to eat…

McCullum was coming to the sad and dreadful realisation that he was severely undernourished, both in knowledge and nutrients.

In truth McCullum was a babe in the woods with no guiding hand to show him the way through the thicket.

McCullum couldn’t let people know he was a vampire, he would rather die than let the people he knew know of his current…condition. And walking around looking like death warmed over wasn’t exactly the way to go about his day. The moment someone took a good look at him an angry mob would form armed with agricultural implements and McCullum would be on the run indefinitely.

McCullum had very little to do than go to the mastermind of this problematic situation he found himself in. 

He’d have to pay a visit to the doctor.

Fucking poetic, Geoffrey thought. The cure and the curse were one in the same it seemed.

It wasn’t exactly a trial to find Reid in the cluttered array of decrepit buildings and wafting strangers. Infact it was downright straightforward, eerily so and it set Geoffrey’s nerves alight. Never a man to give in to terror, but in this instance it was frightening how Reid seemed to be enigmatically linked to McCullum. It was like a psychic umbilical cord that followed him always, connected him to his maker and his maker to his progeny. He wondered if it was like this for all vampires or whether the link was made through trial and tribulation endured by both vampires. A sharing of a common thought or a common enemy perhaps.

Perhaps it was there at birth.

Nevertheless, it was useful and creepy all at once.

McCullum opened the paint-cracked window of his room and stepped outside onto the disused scaffolding. He jumped from roof to roof leaving his telltale black smoke in his wake. One of the perks of being the undead: Transportation was cheap. Trains and cars could go fuck themselves right up their mechanical buttholes because McCullum was too busy flying through the fucking air like a damn fairy to give a hoot.

McCullum followed the cord of his maker through the smoke filled atmosphere, his decaying body drinking in the moonlit night as he flit from place to place. Sometimes he might step on a loose roof tile or make a noise that alerted the occupants of the building but otherwise he was more or less unseen which helped when you looked like the by product of the union between a bruised blueberry and a man who had a kink for fucking fruit.

McCullum took less than ten minutes to finally reach the place where Reid had been hunting. McCullum could smell him in the air, the mixture of his gentleman’s cologne and hair oil. When McCullum breathed deep of his makers scent, his stomach was filled with not butterflies but hornets. Vicious, oversized wasps beating his guts raw. He was nervous, excited and angry all at once. He hated that after so long absent Reid’s presence his blood sung wildly at the prospect of uniting with its father after a prolonged absence. It was beyond McCullum’s control and it took all his will not to stand in the scent of Reid and just breathe heavily like some dick head with a fetish for air.

It was fucking weird.

McCullum was certainly lucky in that he hadn’t the blood to spare to make his dick work properly cause he was sure from the buzzing in his stomach his nerves like pinpricks that he would have been set to full mast in order to allow Reid to thrash his ship with all the cannons he had.

Was McCullum really making nautical sex puns? 

He was truly a sick, sick man.

McCullum wasn’t ashamed to be attracted to Reid. Because at the end of the day although Reid might be a Vampire he was also a walking sex fantasy borne from the loins of a sex-crazed philosopher. He was a tall gentleman ahead of his age with a beard that was the envy of any Grecian god who had a keen interest in goose sex.

McCullum had to admit that the beard really sold it to him. It was that fantastical facial hair that promised all manner of fantastically wicked activities. Like if one ventured into the depth of Reid’s beard one might come upon an orgy of flesh and blood intertwined against a backdrop of holy architecture sculpted from solid chocolate delights.

Reid’s external enchantments were complimented by his verbal ones. The sound that dripped out of Reid’s lips was syrupy and thick. With an almost wispy like voice accompanied by a crescendo of baritone that promised a night of super good sex stuff. Reid was the sort of person who could read out a list of symptoms accompanying genital warts and gonorrhoea and he’d have everyone in the audience rolling in their own bodily fluids with post orgasmic delight. People’s dicks would be missing because they’d shoot out of their bodies and into the sky like a shooting star but shaped like a dick under the persuasion of Jonathans Reid’s sexy sexually transmitted disease poetry performed live on stage.  
Fuck if this whole shitshow didn’t suck any worse than it already did.  
Hungry and horny McCullum was even less of a man than when he had started.  
The addition of Jonathan Reid made the whole situation escalate to a point of emergency.

He really needed to feed because at this point McCullum felt the urge to just wander into a chicken coop, mug one of the chickens and then let the farmer mistaken him for a wolf or something equally stupid. But the thought of his men reading of his death in the paper was enough to dissuade him. God forbid if the great Geoffrey McCullum died in the process of a chicken mugging.

 

Fuck that shit; he was going to die a great and glorious death like a hero. 

“The prodigal son returns.”

Fuck.

There was the syrup and McCullum was a pancake. 

McCullum took a deep breath and composed himself in an effort to hide the more severe symptoms which presented themselves in the wake of his undernourishment. To appear weak and starved in front of Reid, who by himself was already a presence that induced McCullum’s legs the falter, was something the proud Guard of Priwen refused to allow on any given day.

Especially in front of a leech.

So with a stiff upper lip and a sharp look in his eye the hunter turned to face his Maker and with a will of steel McCullum stood strong and stood fast until that all crumbled and he promptly fell over into a puddle of rain water like a badly made meat pie. Also a bird flew past and took a shit on him. He was both an example of shame and weakness as he crumbled to the ground, the perfect picture of a flawed organism overcome with destitution and in want of a charitable hand and in need of a tissue to wipe the bird shit from his person. 

Yes, McCullum had achieved perhaps the best example of a vampire truly down on his luck.

Before McCullum succumbed to unconsciousness he mumbled a frank ‘fuck’ to the colossal prick (Reid, not an actual enormous dick just hanging out on rooftops cause what the fuck right?) as he rushed to his fallen progeny in his obvious hour of need.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously on this dumpster fire:
> 
> McCullum fell into a puddle and a bird shat on him  
> Jonathan found a McCullum on a roof and was like ‘Ima take this’
> 
> STOP ENJOYING THIS

 

Reid would be lying if he said he was surprised by the sudden appearance of McCullum. After all, wherever Reid went McCullum was always close by, at least mentally. Like his own Maker before him Reid maintained a psychic link with his progeny. At will he could whisper to him or influence his thoughts or share an image. But Reid did not tug at the link very often if at all. Reid was a man of principle, warped principle perhaps, but principle none the less. He did not believe that it was his place to be perverting a man’s privacy by watching his every thought or trying to influence the man. Besides, McCullum was a strong personality and Reid doubted that he could get McCullum to acknowledge him let alone listen to him. And it was McCullum’s stubborn, prideful nature that Reid found utterly amusing and somewhat adorable in their display, as frustrating as it was when things were in their most dire state.

 

Reid would be also lying if the vampire hunter didn’t make him wonder if a relationship of any kind could be achieved between the two.

 

Whether collaborators or…collaborators in other activities besides saving the world from threats of the ancient, maddened deity variety.

 

Reid bent down to the crumpled form of the glorious leader of the Guard of Priwen and lifted his face. One look at him and he immediately was reminded of the cadaverous form of William Marshall back at Lady Ashbury’s crumbling estate. It was a time of new knowledge and lost companions. Reid would never forget the burning shape of Elisabeth Ashbury as she let the wild flames consume her dead body. Overcome with grief at Jonathan’s sudden attained savagery and bloodlust she lost all hope for any life that could be lived with meaning.

 

So she spared the world of the blood of hate and the opportunity of love.

 

For what was hate but jilted love?

 

Reid admonished any thoughts of Elisabeth. She was dead and he could do little to change that. But the dying he could help and the dying he had sworn on his Hippocratic oath to attend to, to the best of his ability, try and circumvent death from happening to all and every patient presented to him. And currently there was an undead dying man covered in shit, lying in a rain puddle looking like death had fucked him through his eye socket with a rolling pin ribbed for your pleasure.

 

And it was McCullum, leader of the Guard of Priwen and a newly born vampire at that.

 

 _His_ newly born vampire.

 

Reid carefully took McCullum by the chin and inspected his face. His cheeks had sunken in and the scars on his face seemed to have deepened and made the man look older than his years. There was a blue tinge seeping from his hairline and inwards to the corner of his eyes.

 

The diagnosis was undernourishment, dehydration and exhaustion.

 

The man was in bad shape and Reid could guess as to why that was the case. He knew it all to well, the refusal to drink human blood due to the demands of ones ethics. Also having ones newly turned vampire father rip your mothers throat out makes the whole issue _super_ awkward. McCullum, being a Guard of Priwen, put the issue on a grander scale than normal as well. He had spent his life hunting and hating Vampires, believing their very existence was reason enough to give the devil form and meaning.

 

And yeah, the whole murdered mother thing sort of justified that idea to no end, so Reid could empathise with why McCullum was so dedicated to his refusal of nourishing himself on the blood of the living.

 

Yeah being a vampire was perhaps the most morally dubious thing that could happen to a human being inside a modern, civilised society.

 

Reid turned McCullum over carefully and scooped the back of his knees up with his arm and cradled his back with the other. McCullum’s arms were folded neatly in his lap, his head cradled against Reid’s chest, nestled in the collar of his blue and red coat. Reid wasted no time in jumping from building to building until he reached the West End following the pier through Whitechapel and the Docks.

 

He reached the balcony attached to his bedroom in his family’s mansion.

 

Luckily his comings and goings weren’t registered by members of the family, seeing as his father left without a word a long time ago attributing some dark energy residing inside of himself as the reason. Reid had killed his sister after she had climbed up from her grave and had proceeded to, understandably, get a bit barmy after Reid accidentally had turned her vampire without meaning to and then let people just fucking chuck her corpse in a mass grave. Naturally, Reid was forced to exterminate via means of stabbing her in the heart with her own funerary cross. And the only truly living member of the family was Reid’s mother who spent her days talking to dead people.

 

Yeah…Reid’s family wasn’t exactly the ideal British household full of good British ideals like colonizing the shit out of everywhere.

 

If anything it was an example to others of everything and anything that could go wrong within the family unit: Everyone’s dead, you made your sister a vampire and your mum see’s dead people and only dead people, and the butler keeps cleaning the same spot on the damn floor like the carpet was giving out wishes.

 

It didn’t help that Avery was also on heroin.

 

Because it’s the 1900’s and everyone’s on fucking heroin.

 

If Avery stopped cleaning the same spot religiously some shit would go down.

 

And said shit was not appreciated.

 

This house was crrrraaazzzyyyyyy.

 

Reid pushed the door open to his room that was attached to the window balcony and carefully placed McCullum onto his bed, once he was assured that the Irishman wasn’t about to fall off the bed Reid closed the door to the balcony and made sure the door leading to the hallway was closed as he wouldn’t want the butler, Avery (if he had managed to tear himself away from that single spot on the carpet) walking in on him with a stranger draped over his bed like he’d just committed a hostage taking. He could probably just tell Avery not to say a word or mention this to anyone because what was his mother going to do? Tell his dead dad that his supposedly dead son was bringing strange men into the house and tossing them into his bed like he was collecting hobos? And then dead dad was supposed to give his supposed dead son a lecture about the danger of bringing strange, unclean hobo men into his room considering the era’s severe homophobia and hobophobia.

 

That wasn’t exactly a consequence Reid had to seriously worry about. Good thing about having a mother who was dropping marbles all over the fucking place was that her word meant very little in the neighbourhood. She had become the village crazy lady essentially. And ironically it was something of a gift where Reid’s new life style was concerned. If his mother ever did tell the neighbours her son was the undead sucking the blood from the necks of ordinary bystanders all it would get her was a pat on the back, a warm cup of a tea and some raisin loaf.

 

Cause bitches love them some raisin loaf.

 

Jonathan shed his thick coat and placed it on the coat stand beside the door. He removed his shoes and ran a hand through his cropped, black hair. Reid undid his red tie and unbuttoned the first three pearl enamelled buttons on his shirt so he could loosen his starched collar and let his skin breathe a little after having gorged on human blood and travelling with an extra weight through the heights of the cityscape.

 

Jonathan brought a velvet stool to the side of his bed where his newly acquired patient lay still and breathing softly against the silk lined pillow. The doctor took out a stethoscope from leather bag he kept on the work desk designated as a small laboratory used by Reid in his days as a student when he had just started studying medicine. It came in handy when he needed to closely inspect blood samples and other such minute pieces of biological material he came across.

 

Reid placed the ear tips into his ear and pressed the drum to McCullum’s chest only after he had unbuttoned his shirt to allow for skin contact.

 

No heartbeat.

 

Shit that wasn’t goo-

 

Oh wait, Jonathan thought.

 

Undead.

 

Right.

 

The presence of a heartbeat would have been the abnormal thing, not the absence of one.

 

Jonathan chastised himself and mentally punched himself in the dick for failing to put in consideration the state of the patient’s undeath. It was obvious this whole doctor thing only really applied to the living and Jonathan was out of his depth with undead patients.

 

Jonathan took out the earpiece and looped the stethoscope around his neck and placed his fingers against the cheekbones of McCullum’s scarred face. Reid inspected the blue tinge on the Irishman’s hairline, luckily the discolouring hadn’t advanced to a point where it was noticeable enough to get people to run for the hills or gather all religious talismans and chuck them at Geoffrey like he had just come out of a brothel specialising in intercourse of the hellish variety.  


That was a good sign, Reid thought.

 

Anything that didn’t further the suspicion of McCullum’s true nature was something that could be considered a positive. Something to distract from the sunken cheeks and the excessively pale countenance that made McCullum’s veins vibrantly erupt out from under his skin.

 

Reid traced a finger down a long vein that ran from the bottom of his eye to the corner of his lip and branched outward towards the edge of his face. Even starving and unconscious McCullum was a man of substance. Even in his sleep he looked to be a immovable and maddening character. The sort of person whom you would find great pleasure in punching them in the face should you find the opportunity to do so without them knowing.

 

Like when they’re unconscious with exhaustion.

 

Yes, Reid was starting to feel a bit like a creep getting off on punching people in their unconscious states.

 

Jonathan let out a heavy breath he had been holding whilst investigating the tragic beauty upon his bed, he dismissed his voyeuristic tendencies and covered McCullum’s lower half with a mink blanket that had been draped over the end of his bed. Jonathan would have to get some blood, some proper _human_ blood that is, into McCullum’s system before the hunter could awaken and fight a losing battle that Reid knew he would do. Reid didn’t have any blood on hand because it wasn’t his principle to just stash bags of blood in his wardrobe like a crazy person. Jonathan would have to go to Pembroke to get some. Reid knew that the Irishman would never willingly allow another vampire to just shoot him up with human blood so Jonathan would have to act quick.

 

* * *

 

 

“Jonathan!”

 

“Edgar.” Reid smiled at his friend as he rose from his book and greeted Jonathan with his trademark moustachioed smile, now accompanied by a pale countenance recognised as a visual symptom of vampirism.

 

After having been beaten quite literally to death and admitting in his dying throes to Jonathan about his blood experiments with Elisabeth’s blood and Harriet’s body, Jonathan granted Edgar the single thing Swansea had desired in all his life since dealing with Jonathan’s kind. Jonathan granted him his wish, having no true desire to see his only true friend perish in the basement of some burnt out theatre covered in actress swollen arm jizz.

 

Since becoming immortal Edgar had put his newfound immortality to good use working endlessly to attain a better understanding of medical science and the human body. Reid considered it ample compensation for the epidemic he had caused and held no distrust or hatred towards his fellow doctor.

 

“I thought you’d gone home for the day?” Edgar asked closing his book and placing it on his desk.

 

“That was my original intention but I was…distracted.”

“Distracted?” Edgar offered him a querying eyebrow.

 

“Yes. By a certain Geoffrey McCullum-.”

 

“McCullum!-“

 

“A starving Geoffrey McCullum.” Reid added.

 

“Indeed.” Edgar said contemplatively. “And he did not try and-“

 

“Exterminate me?”

 

“I want to say indispose” Edgar said.

 

“He was a bit too indisposed himself to put me in an equal position. The man looks like death.”

 

“Well he is undead.” Edgar chuckled.

 

“Yes but more dead than undead.”

 

“I see…well I suppose there is a line between the unwillingness to die and the act itself. Well, what did you do?” Edgar asked intrigued.

 

“I took him to the West End.”

 

“To your house?” Edgar asked shaken.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Are you so sure that’s a good idea? A Guard of Priwen, the leader no doubt, and devout as they come to boot within the confines of a house alongside yourself? You don’t see this ending badly?”

 

Jonathan laughed. “Considering his condition I would be surprised if he could manage to lightly tap me on the nose.” Edgar merely looked at Jonathan with his eyebrows knotted together in worry. “I assure you good man that as long as I turn a blind eye most everyone else turns a blind eye. The West End is Sodom and Gomorrah but wearing a fancy hat to hide all the orgy liquids.” Jonathan grinned while Edgar chuckled.

 

“So, what’s wrong with the brute?” Edgar asked.

 

“The unwillingness to be a brute.” Jonathan said simply.

 

“Oh.”

 

“He wont feed on proper, nutritious blood. He’s subsisting on Skaal blood which is essentially the equivalent of a human relying entirely on chocolate cake to keep us from falling down.” Jonathan explained.

 

“I don’t know Jonathan, I could happily rely entirely on chocolate cake for my dietary needs.” Edgar said cheekily.

 

“You know what I mean Edgar, the man is a mess. How he hasn’t turned the headquarters into the sight of some massacre beggars belief. I understand fortitude and strength of will but this is as close to inhuman as it gets!”

 

“Vampire.” Edgar pointed out.

 

“You want me to put you back in that theatre basement?” Jonathan said gravely.

 

“I would not like that.” Edgar replied. “Ah. Well.” Edgar coughed. “Yes I suppose his training n the Guard of Priwen offers him a significant amount of willpower as opposed to someone who has not been exposed to such discipline. Also if I remember correctly you said his mother was the victim of a vampire attack, yes?”

 

“His father being the vampire.” Jonathan said.

 

“Well then, that does make it a bit more easily understood why McCullum is such a stalwart opponent in regards to feeding on humans. There’s nothing quite like the discipline of life’s unkind means of reminding us that life is quite possibly the most terrible provision to impose on a creature conscious of the ruthlessness of one’s condition.”

 

“So life is a terrible thing and it is a terrible thing to know this terrible thing?”

 

“In layman’s terms, yes.”

 

“That is how a normal person talks, Edgar. Not everyone is capable of such erudition.”

 

“Yes but I’m a doctor Jonathan! And I have to make everything needlessly complicated because what we really do is actually insipidly lacklustre” Edgar said frustrated.

 

“And what is it we do?” Jonathan asked playfully.

 

“Stick our hands in peoples orifices.” Edgar said in a monotonous voice. “And if where we want to stick our hands in has no orifice we make an orifice and then stick our hands in it. And if where we want to stick our hands in does not infact fit or hands then we stick some other instrument into said orifice using our hands to grasp it.”

 

“Wow. I, as of today, did not know our true purpose as professionals.” Jonathan asked mocking astonishment on his face.

 

“It’s not just that, I mean, sounding normal or being normal is just so…tedious.” Edgar groaned dramatically.

 

“Bloody hell Edgar, a vampire for barely five minutes and you think the human condition is suddenly bereft of excitement.” Jonathan asked exasperated.  


“On the contrary my good fellow, it is the human condition I am excited to learn about during my newfound immortality. For our biological impulses may have been altered but philosophically we are still human.”

 

“But with a better medical plan.” Jonathan said.

 

“Just so, which gives us all the time in the world to consider what it means to be human!”

 

“Thousands of years of human civilization say’s you fail.”

 

“We are not an antiquated culture who utilises human sacrifice in order to prevent the sun from never coming back, we have made some progress.” Edgar pointed out.

 

“And yet the sun has not failed to return, much to the dismay of vampires all around the world.”

 

“Very funny.” Edgar said sardonically. “So-.”

 

“I apologise Edgar but I haven’t the luxury for conversation at this very moment. If you recall I have a Guard of Priwen in my house and I would like to avoid having my personal belongings reduced to implements of attempted murder.”

Jonathan explained in as polite a manner he could muster given the haste which he required.

 

“Yes, of course. You have the key to the morgue, or did-.”

 

“Right here.” Jonathan patted his suit vest pocket.

 

“Ah, good. Well off you go I may go out for a bite to eat.” Edgar said with a smirk.

 

“It’s good to see that the vampire puns have not lost their charm for you.”

 

“I would like to bleed every last drop I can get out of the vampire experience.”

 

“You’re definitely going back in that damn basement.” Jonathan said before he shut Swansea’s office door and made his way downstairs and toward the morgue which was situated a behind the hospital entrance in a separate part of the building facilities.

 

 The morgue was being used as cold storage until the after-effects of both the war and the plague had lessened to enough of a degree that materials weren’t totally exhausted and Pembroke could rebuild it’s infrastructure and begin running at it’s maximum capacity to improve services. Jonathan checked the cold chamber that was being used for the blood used in transfusions. He noticed that it had been restocked and thanked God that there was plenty to choose from. It didn’t really matter the type considering there was no chance of an ABO incompatibility reaction. The vampire body wasn’t exactly picky about its blood. Jonathan grabbed the two closest bags of blood, shut the cabinet and quickly whisked himself back home by means of the vampire mist train.

 

* * *

 

 

Jonathan was lucky in that he didn’t have to go through hospital property to find the right instruments for a blood transfusion. The good thing about being a pioneer in such an integral part of medical science was that you had all the instruments required in ones bedroom. Unlike if you did have said instruments in ones bedroom wardrobe and you weren’t a medical professional you’d be considered a bit fucked up in that diabolical murder machine you call a head.

So when Avery cleaned up Jonathan’s things he didn’t ask himself why the oldest son’s cupboard looked like the toolbox of Jack The Ripper himself. He just reminded himself the boy was a medical student. Even if Avery had found a body in Jonathans closet he probably would have just shrugged, dusted it and figured medical students just hung dead bodies in their places of occupation because medical students were nuts by nature. The willingness to stick your hands in people was not something everyone prided himself or herself in. Who knows when one might need to poke around a dead body and practise for midterms?

 

Jonathan got home in record timing. McCullum was still out cold, which was lucky, but considering the state he was in it was unlikely he’d be jumping about like a beefed up flea with musculature built by steroid experimentation anytime soon.

 

Jonathan took out his transfusion instruments from the leather bag that contained all things medically relevant. He took out a needle and a thin IV tube specially built for small amounts of blood to be passed from the bag to the veins. Jonathan stripped McCullum of his jacket, shirt and neck scarf.

 

McCullum might be a huge prick but he obviously had a thing for fashionable neck decorations.

 

Vampires, being naturally predisposed to fashionista behaviour, looked fucking fabulous outwardly. Geoffrey had to think like the enemy in order to properly predict the enemy’s behaviour.

 

So Geoffrey put on a cute scarf.

 

Lifting McCullum’s body up to remove the garments wasn’t the trial and tribulations it would have been had the man been eating properly. He was dangerously lithe and his bones stuck out and rubbed against Jonathan’s palms and forearms. McCullum’s body absent any clothing shocked Jonathan. His chest and stomach was a tableau of scar tissue. Various raised hills of badly healed flesh decorating every inch of the man like a map of some distant land built entirely of crawling hills and snaking mountains made entirely of human skin. His face mirrored the rest of his body, it seemed. Remnants of his human biology and reminders of his mortality long gone. It was obvious to Jonathan that McCullum truly was a brand of holy warrior with an enthusiasm and dedication for holy war against the vile conjurings of the devil himself. (Or herself correctly)

Jonathan had to wonder at the Irishman’s reaction to learn that his own cultures divine pantheon was, infact, the very first branch of Vampirism.

 

Quite literally the mother herself was the devil himself.

 

The professional in Jonathan dismissed the heartbreaking loveliness that was McCullum’s battle scars, chastising himself for wanting to observe the aesthetics of a patient rather than observing their wellbeing. Jonathan’s inner creep was weeping heartily at the professionalism that prevented the doctor from further observing his Progeny’s original landscape of disfigured skin.

 

Ogling the patient was very unbecoming of a man of medicine.

 

No one needed an erection when you were trying to stick sharp, erect objects into improvised orifices.

 

Jonathan cleared his throat and took the IV needle; he tapped his index and middle finger against the skin between the elbow to stimulate the veins. Luckily the vascular system for Vampires was stronger than that of humans. Their veins were so much more pronounced due to less pigment in the skin and the enlargement of blood vessels due to a greater quantity of blood passing through the body at any given time.

 

Jonathan pressed the needle into an especially thick and wavy vein running down the length of McCullum’s arm. He pressed his finger down on the needle once he properly inserted it and took some surgical tape from his bag and ripped off a strip using his teeth. He placed it on the needle to keep it in place and connected the end of the IV tube to the plastic bag of blood. Jonathan looked for a  IV stand but he’d completely neglected to get one, as it was one of the few things he did not supply for himself. He looked around the room for some manner of substitute to keep the bag high and vertical so the blood was supplied in an even manner. Jonathan held the bag high at his level while he grabbed the hat stand beside his door. He removed his coat and threw it to the end of the bed over McCullum’s feet. Jonathan positioned the stand beside McCullum’s head as the hunter slept soundly. Jonathan readjusted the stand and the IV bag so it was mimicking an actual IV stand’s positioning as precisely as was achievable conditions considered.

 

Jonathan squeezed the top of the blood bag to ensure that as much of the blood was positioned at the bottom of the bag. When he heard what sounded like a wet lips he looked down to his patient and was greeted by a sight that he never dared to imagine he would be come into contact with.

 

McCullum’s scarred lips were parted and his mouth opened like a delicate bloom, his two canines extended out of his gums and his fangs bared themselves as if reacting to the simulation of feeding on blood. The tips of his fangs were an angry red and the gums around the root were violently crimson, clashing slightly with the customarily pale pink of the rest of his mouth. Jonathan watched in awe at this display of total submission of McCullum’s body to the totems of Vampiric tradition.

 

Since Jonathan made Geoffrey his progeny he had yet seen the hunter show any display that was typical of a Vampires dramatic parade of curious biology. With McCullum’s fangs bared to all Jonathan was confronted with the visual truth of what Reid had built from his own deadly design. Reid felt a surge of pride when he was face to face with his greatest creation to date, but at the same time there was a pang of regret and guilt that Jonathan had forced McCullum into a paradox that was causing more harm than good for the vampire hunter. Yes Reid had granted McCullum immortality, now the man had all the time in the world to hunt down any and every manner of vampiric offspring. And yes, he had all the powers at his disposal to do the job well and do it often, but at the same time the cruelty of the absurdity that was a vampire vampire hunter was all to obvious, painfully so especially for McCullum.

 

Jonathan preoccupied himself with maintaining the angle of the blood bag, he watched as the blood steadily disappeared down the tube and into McCullum’s arm. McCullum’s mouth was only slightly agape, the tips of his fangs peeking from under his scarred lips. Almost immediately the introduced blood did it’s intended job. Geoffrey began to look significantly better than when he had arrived. The blue tinge at his hairline was losing in prominence and his veins were becoming less overt in their display. His fingers started to twitch and a small groan seeped from his mouth. Jonathan sat down on the stool beside the bed and rested his arms on his lap as he watched McCullum become visibly brighter and more alive in his corporeal appearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fucking love smoothies. I don't have time to eat a full banana.  
> I tried the editing and the grammar.  
> Gave me diabetes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter is even worse than the second chapter.
> 
> You can enjoy I guess.
> 
> I don't know.
> 
> Historical accuracy? The fuck is that?

After a quarter of an hour the blood from the bag had almost completely been drained and McCullum’s eyelids started fluttering to life. He sucked in his dry, chapped lips and instinctively ran a tongue over them and then over the rounded points of his fangs. His eyelids rose up ever so slowly as he started to gain in his lucidity. McCullum turned his head side to side and began to make a conscious effort in trying to decipher his whereabouts. When finally he was fully awake and conscious of his surroundings, Jonathan’s face was the first thing to rise from the blurry mosaic and morph into the clear definition of shape and form with no additives of blurred vision.

Jonathan looked McCullum straight in the eye, said nothing and made no motion to touch his patient or offer any emotive nuances.

McCullum was quiet for a moment; he rubbed his eyes and bowed his back to readjust any strained vertebrae. McCullum stared at Jonathan’s face, a perfect example of a predator, blood satiation so obvious that it was as if his eyes were just beyond bursting with the sheer volume of the cherry red liquor he had consumed. Jonathan’s pupils were of a feline quality. The narrow diamond purposed to filter any unwanted light that might make hunting more a tribulation than it need be.

Everything about Jonathans face was everything McCullum countered with hostility; violence. 

Waking up to the perfect face of the enemy was not something McCullum could so easily digest.

“Christ…” McCullum mumbled. “It’s like waking up with a hangover that has a hangover.”

“Some hangover.” Jonathan chuckled.

“Or, alternatively, I’ve died and gone to hell.” McCullum rose up to his elbows and started to shift upwards, Jonathan moved to aid the hunter in his movements but McCullum shot him a glare and it was enough to convince Jonathan to sit back down and do nothing.

“At least you died drunk and not sober, I cant imagine what it must be like to perish with ones sense of inhibitions intact. All the dying that I have seen and rarely does one not soil themselves during.”

McCullum choked out a laugh, surprised by the nature of humour from the vampire doctor, but almost immediately suppressed it as he clutched his side in pain. Jonathan instinctively went to the hunter’s aid despite attempts to glare the doctor away.

“The effect of falling onto ones face.”

“Where am I?” McCullum asked as he pressed a palm to his head, looked down at himself and then to Jonathan. When he saw the bag of half empty blood hanging on a coat stand he followed the IV line he began to panic. He started breathing heavily as he came face to face with the needle feeding him blood straight to his vein, before Jonathan could prevent McCullum from getting a hold of it, with superhuman strength Geoffrey pulled the needle from his arterial vein and it was obvious to Jonathan that McCullum was not a happy chappy.

That was his professional opinion.

Reid was no psycho analyst but he was pretty sure the gritted teeth and vicious arterial spray splattering against the wall, window and Jonathans own face was visual information enough of Geoffrey McCullum exhibiting symptoms of rage.

Jonathan calmly sat on his chair and, pressing his palms together between his knees, he made no attempt to move as Geoffrey began to rage in front of him. He had come to the conclusion that the best thing to do in the face of Geoffrey McCullum having a hissy fit was to be the adult and wait it out in a calm disposition.

McCullum threw the bed sheets aside from his lap, he, in an obvious exhibition of pain, began to rise to his feet, standing on the bed but when he fell to his knees due to serious exhaustion he made do with elevating himself to Jonathans level by standing on his knees. Geoffrey took the IV needle and grabbed Jonathan’s cropped black hair, entangling it in a fist and thrusting the doctor’s head forward as he pressed the needle to his neck, using his sight to pinpoint the exact location of Reid’s jugular. Jonathan didn’t even twitch at this display; he had pretty much expected this reaction and the subsequent performance from McCullum. If being McCullum’s maker meant anything it meant having at least a rudimentary understanding of his psychological profile. And it didn’t take a vampire to know McCullum’s entire thing was macho violence, if his scar tissue was anything to go by.

“Tell me what the fuck you did to me Reid, or so help me God I will rip your head from your body!” Geoffrey bared his fangs at Jonathan as his pupils dilated and every symbol of predatory behaviour was exhibited in Geoffrey’s every manner.

“With a .5mm needle?”

“I can shoot fucking blood spears out of my body, I’ll make it work.” McCullum said with gritted teeth. 

“This is true.” Jonathan shrugged.

“Why do I feel better?” The hunter growled.

“That’s a first.” Jonathan blinked. “As a physician I can’t say a patient has ever asked me in an acerbic tone as to why he feels better. Quite the opposite is what I’m used to.” The good doctor mused.

“I’m going to ask you again, Doctor Reid.” The needle was pressed a little harder now. “Why. Do. I. Feel. Better?”

“I transfused human blood in-.”

“You what?” McCullum’s eyes flared with revulsion, readying himself to behead a man with a .5mm surgical needle like a son of a bitch.

“If you’ll let me finish McCullum.” Jonathan cleared his throat. “I transfused human blood into you. Blood that was willingly given to the hospital by people with a sense of charity to those found wanting.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Believe me when I say you were found wanting.” McCullum growled. “Very wanting.”

Jonathan switched from McCullum’s right eye and left eye, studying the man like he might study a map of the human brain. Jonathan made no attempt to move, happy to watch McCullum as he pressed the needle to his neck and threatened to dismember him. Jonathan believed he had the will to do it but he doubted that the man had the want.

The corner of Jonathan’s mouth twitched, McCullum saw this micro expression which egged him on and he pushed the needle hard enough that it breached the skin and a small trickle of blood oozed from the puncture. Jonathan slowly raised his hand, when McCullum made no move to press the needle further at this motion; Jonathan took McCullum’s wrist gently, wrapping his long and delicate fingers around the hunters wrist and McCullum watched Jonathan with a confused and hypnotised look on his face. After what felt like minutes Jonathan, with his hand grasping softly at McCullum’s wrist, made Geoffrey slice Jonathans throat in a sideways motion. The wound was not deep but it was deep enough to bleed significantly. The parted skin bled, a thick and even blanket of liquid ecstasy made it’s way down the doctor’s elegant and pale throat. McCullum was utterly transfixed by the wound and it’s precious prize.

Jonathan could feel the anticipation in McCullum’s skin, see his veins glow brightly with undiluted elation. Geoffrey’s heart might be a still reservoir of blank emotion but it did not mean that vampires were absent any sensation.  
Quite the opposite, if there was one thing that sent a vampire into the uncontrollable waves of feeling and sensation that was stirred up by the heart was that feeling for blood.

And when one’s maker was the one bleeding, the sensation became an unruly sanctuary of emotion. McCullum could feel his instincts take hold, his fangs began to throb, his throat began to dry and he licked his lips in anticipation for a gorging. Jonathan watched the hunters pink tongue slowly slide across his scarred lip and the doctor knew exactly what was happening.

It was calculated and prepared; his progeny was anything if predictable. Even as a vampire the man was so foreseeable that Jonathan could predict his reaction to being stung by a bee.

Punch the bee in the dick.

Assuming the bee had a dick and understanding few bees were actually male this was rather farfetched.

McCullum shifted a little closer to Jonathan, his eyes like a slave to the blood weeping out of his neck. McCullum’s nostrils flared as he got an aroma of Jonathan’s royal blood. It was heady and strong, with a musk that reminded him of red wine. It was a perfume of sweet nostalgia, but with a hint of pathos lingering in the undercurrent. McCullum could focus on nothing but the blood, now caressing Jonathan’s collarbone, winding over the bone like a lethargic stream, lazy and content to find its way to the good doctors sternum.

McCullum was mesmerised and totally out of it with the fragrance of bloodlust. He grabbed Jonathan’s chin violently, shoved it to an upward angle and McCullum, totally forgone the idea of personal space, pressed his nose to Jonathan’s neck and breathed deeply so as to enjoy the redolence that inspired all the rapture in the world for McCullum. Jonathan could feel McCullum’s fangs press tenderly against the side of his neck as the hunter revelled in the spilt blood. As soon as he felt the hunter put pressure on his neck Jonathan, within a split second, roughly grabbed McCullum by the shoulders, threw him down onto the bed and using all his body weight in his hips and arms, pinned Geoffrey down to the bed in order to prevent the man from taking even a drop of Jonathans blood. If McCullum was to drink Jonathan’s blood, it would not be in the throes of an unwinnable fight with bloodlust, rather it would be Geoffrey sane and willing to drink his makers blood.

This did nothing except frustrate the Guard of Priwen. He gritted his teeth, fangs still devastatingly explicit and eyes pinpricks of pure acrimony. So much so Jonathan was convinced McCullum could probably slice tree stumps with a pupil that prickly.

McCullum was weak, but in his state of bloodlust adrenaline replaced what a bad diet had removed. The Guard of Priwen thrashed in his captors hold and kicked and spat at his Maker. He tried to claw and rake the doctors face but was unable to compete against a well-fed Ekon.

“Are we quite done, Geoffrey?” Jonathan asked calmly as the hunter heaved and puffed as a result of his excursion. “Are you going to behave?”

McCullum glowered at him. Throwing his head to the side and refusing to look at the man, his maker of all people.

“You came to me for help, McCullum. And so, like any good physician, I help.” Jonathan explained, McCullum said nothing. “This is what happens when you ignore your nutritional requirements-.”

“-When I ignore my morality?” Geoffrey countered.

“-You are unable to fight back.” Jonathan continued. “Were you taking good care of yourself you wouldn’t have had to come find me and we both wouldn't be in this uncomfortable situation we find ourselves in now.” 

There was a knock at the door and both men turned their heads to the door that was now halfway opened with Avery’s head poking out timidly. The three men stared at each other in silence for a decent ten seconds, Avery obviously trying to decipher the scene before his weary, heroin addled eyes. Sufficed to say everyone was puzzled but no one more so than Geoffrey who wasn’t exactly sure where he was which meant anything coming into the room was like Pandora’s box. 

The fucking devil could have waltzed on in with some raisin loaf for all Geoffrey knew.

“Ah…sir.” Avery said clearing his throat. “A school friend, is it?” he asked because the butler had seen some shit and knew not to ask about said shit.

“I’m in my late thirties now Avery.” Jonathan replied.

“Yes, a school chum…” Avery mumbled to himself as his head receded from view and the door closed behind him. “They are playing good wholesome games..."

“The fuck is that?” Geoffrey asked as Jonathan looked down at him.

“Avery.”

“The fuck is Avery?” 

“My butler.”

“Of course.” Geoffrey scoffed. “The leech has a butler. You got imprisoned virgins and altars covered with orgiastic motifs as well?”

“The only imprisoned virgin I currently have is you.” Jonathan smirked.

“I’ll have you know I’ve been around the block in my time. On more than one occasion.” Geoffrey argued.

“Indeed? Then I guess you’re the orgiastic motif, in that case.”

“You can get off me now.” Geoffrey said entirely disregarding the doctor’s comments, bucking into the older vampire with his hips to reinstate his remark.

“If I let you go are you going to make an attempt on my life?” Jonathan asked with a raised eyebrow.

“No.” McCullum said. McCullum didn’t expect Jonathan to actually take him by his word so quickly. He half expected to go through a whole fucking song and dance to persuade him. 

With puppets and shit, like the Punch and Judy shows about domestic abuse.

Fucking kids love domestic abuse.

They fucking love it.

Mum hits dad, dad kills mum it’s like cocaine to them. 

Kids fucking love cocaine too.

Works awesome on teething babies.

But with a refined bend and flick Jonathan released the man’s wrists, removed his own person from Geoffrey’s and took a seat by the bed. Geoffrey lay there for a moment before getting up, rubbing his poor bruised wrists and bending his knees so he could sit up against the bed head and look out the window at the streets below. But in comparison to the streets of Whitechapel or the Docks the street was actually nice. The sort of nice wherein there was only a 5 percent chance of you getting mugged or shanked by a gang of rats high on crack.

You heard right, rats. 

The rodent variety.

They didn’t just come with diseases anymore, they came packing.

You live in the sewers you better believe you don’t choose the thug life the thug life chooses you.

“Your butlers a bit touched in the head.” Geoffrey said as he inspected the now healed wound on the flesh between his elbow where he had pulled the IV needle with such flair. 

“Since living within our family unit Avery has come to the conclusion that it is best on his health if he disregards everything he see’s within these four walls.”

“He know you’re a leech?”

“In truth I have no idea. But if he does or does not he makes no mention of it.”  
It was then that Geoffrey heard the sounds of mumbling, to him it sounded like a conversation.

“Who else is here?!” Geoffrey hissed in a hushed voice.

“My mother.”

“You lie, it sounds like she’s talking to someone.” Geoffrey countered.

“Dead people.”

“…What?”

“Dead people. Well, dead family members to be exact. Don’t worry they’re all deceased so existing isn’t one of their strengths.” Jonathan assured him.

Geoffrey stared at Jonathan as though the man had just pulled a rabbit out of his dick in some fucked up magic show set up in a dark alleyway where paedophiles wait for wayward children to wander by and lure them with puppet shows about domestic abuse.

Kids fucking love domestic abuse performed by perverts in dark alleyways.

“Should I ask…?” Geoffrey dared to ask.

“Nope.” Jonathan said fixing his collar.

“…Why is your mother talking to dead people?”

“I thought I said…?”

“I asked anyway.”

“Then why ask if you can ask at all?”

“Because I don’t need your approval to do shit, is why.”

“Then don’t ask if you can ask if you’re just going to ask anyway- what are you doing?” Jonathan’s shoulders sagged and he dropped his chin to his chest as he watched Geoffrey hobble to the window. Unfortunately Geoffrey’s capabilities in walking were severely hindered by the fact he, in reality, had only managed to get less than half a litre of blood in his system by means of the IV transfusion. As such his means of locomotion was severely limited. Limited to him lying on the floor and reaching out to the window with an outstretched hand like if he stretched it enough he’d suddenly forgo all anatomical constraints and become a packet of chewing gum. For was it not every vampires dream to exit the restrictive form of bipedalism, and become a cohesive substance of gum, sweeteners typically contained within a powdered polyol coating.

Unfortunately reality sucks, so becoming a stick of chewing gum was no option for McCullum. 

So McCullum lay on the floor and tried to move heaven and earth so he could get out the window like a floppy fish.

Flop flop motherfucker.

“Geoffrey. Geoffrey. Geoffrey. Geoffrey.” Jonathan said repetitively. 

“You can say my name all you want leech, I’m not coming back!” Geoffrey   
shouted into the wooden floor.

“I can’t hear you through the floor.”

“I said I’m not coming back!” Geoffrey said moving to his side so he could support himself on his elbow.

“You haven’t left.” Jonathan walked over to Geoffrey’s flat corpse, for that is precisely what it looked like laying flat on the wooden floor, and took him by the shoulders with both hands, pulling him up. At this point Avery’s head could be seen sliding out from behind the door as he appeared out of the nether world like some doped up phantom. Avery appeared to completely disregard the fact that the wall was covered in arterial blood splatter, and Jonathan was predisposed in holding a man tightly by the armpit and forcefully preventing the haggard looking hobo from leaving out the fucking balcony.

Luckily heroin.

“I thought you might like to show your school chum your slinky toy.” Avery explained.

“A little busy here Avery!” Jonathan cried out.

“The fuck is a slinky?” Geoffrey asked.

“You watch it fall down the stairs.” Avery replied.

“Is every childhood toy about domestic abuse?” Geoffrey asked as he wiggled in Jonathan’s grasp as the doctor started dragging the man back towards the bed with its fine linens hanging crumpled and shambolic from the attempted escapee.

“Avery.” Jonathan said with a deep authoritative tone. “I currently do not require a slinky to throw down the stairs. Please occupy yourself with that one spot in the carpet.”

“Damnable spot of hell spawn…” Avery mumbled as his head retreated from sight.

Jonathan sighed, took a deep breath and managed to wrestle Geoffrey from the ground and lift his wriggling worm body from the floor and throw the man back on the bed like the annoying fucking patient Geoffrey was being.

There was not one hospital that didn’t have a Geoffrey in its wards.

That fucking rectum that, even with all the care they were getting, complained that a certain nurse stuck the needle in too hard so it hurt. When told that it’s a fucking pointed piece of sharpened metal with the intended use of piercing skin and veins, the patient would make disgruntled breathing noises as though it were a valid argument.

With Geoffrey in bed, albeit with a look on his face that made children cry, Jonathan caught his breath as he leaned on the Metal bed frame and stared at his dickhead of a patient.

A nonetheless hot dickhead of a patient with pecs that you could throw a bag of flour at and then call him a hot piece of bread.

Cause that was the only foodstuff that was available in these lean times.

Flour.

“You’re making this incredibly difficult for me, Geoffrey.”

“You beat me black and blue, vomited blood in my mouth when I asked you to kill me, and turned me into a fucking vampire. Sorry, you were saying that I was making things difficult for you?” Geoffrey cocked his head and crossed his arms.

Well shit.

Reid was struck immediately by the comment.

Cause when said aloud it sounded even more fucked up than what it was minus the verbal description.

Reid hung his head and stared at his feet. He had no reply to this assertion. What do you say when the thing said is the ghastly truth and then some? You cant refute it cause it’s so particular that no one can just be like ‘nah that was Dave’s fault. Bitch wont stop vomiting ancient vampire blood in beaten peoples mouths. I was out getting chips while this happening occurred.’

Geoffrey watched the doctor carefully as he was confused by the man’s reaction. He hung his head like he was expecting a noose or a blade to break it. It was a sign of guilt, of acknowledged involvement in a vile act requiring nothing less than the removal of ones breath and soul from one’s earthly body.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I done fucked up chapter four.
> 
> IM NOT SORRY DEAL WITH IT.
> 
> (Sorry)
> 
> I done fixed it now.

 

“Are you at least, feeling better?” Jonathan asked as he watched from the end of the bed, hanging tightly on the golden metal of the bed frame.

“Yeah, I guess.” Geoffrey stopped, a pregnant pause erupting between the two men. “So, that blood in the bag, it’s donated human blood right? From the hospital?” he asked, desperate to break the awkward silence. 

“Yes.” Jonathan smiled, happy that a conversation between the two didn’t have to be so wrecked with strife and metaphorical middle fingers all over the damn place. “People occasionally feel generous and offer a small amount of blood to aid in the war effort.”

Geoffrey looked at the half empty bag of blood hanging on the coat hanger. His eyes moved to Jonathan and then back to the blood bag. Jonathan got the gist and walked over to the makeshift IV stand, removed the IV from the blood bag and handed it to Geoffrey who took a sniff of it in Jonathan’s hand. Geoffrey’s lips quivered and his nostrils flared as the platelet rich blood enticed every inch of his existence. He tried to mask the way his fangs elongated themselves in preparation for feeding, because, to Geoffrey, it was the most embarrassing part of his newfound biological circumstances. Every time he felt the godforsaken pointed monstrosities barge out of his gums like mouth bandits he felt the sudden urge to go and beat his own mouth up with a rolling pin.

Ribbed for your pleasure.

Geoffrey brought the bag of blood to his mouth; the insertion point of the IV tube upright so he could squeeze the liquid delectation into his fanged gob.

“Would you like a straw?” Jonathan asked. 

Geoffrey looked at the doctor. “Your asking me if I want a straw to drink my bag of blood with?”

“I thought it might lessen the severity of the ethical crisis you have in regards to drinking human blood.” Jonathan said in his best professional manner.

“I’m drinking human blood out of a bag. A straw isn’t going to erase all the wrong that is going on with this scene.” Geoffrey paused. “YeahI’lltakeastraw.” He said silently and quickly.

“Good.” Jonathan flashed him a grin. More specifically one of those trademark Jonathan Reid grins that cause the cosmos to birth a whole other universe and his beard to magically manifest more beards in response to his whole face becoming the sort of face you willingly masturbate over even though your dick fell off in a bout of syphilis.

Yes your jerking at a hole in your crotch, but you didn’t need a dick to feel the pleasure emitted from Jonathan Reid’s sex beard.

Jonathan brought a straw from the kitchen and Geoffrey took it and tried to push the straw into the IV hole. At first it wouldn’t go through, but with a bit of shoving and pushing and manoeuvring on Jonathans part, the straw slid into the bag and McCullum was ready to suck blood out of a bag.

Yes.

McCullum was going to suck blood out of a bag.

The only thing he’d ever wanted to do since his wretched conception.

Jonathan sat on his velvet-lined stool and watched Geoffrey with great interest. Much to Geoffrey’s chagrin because the man was sucking blood out of a bag, you cant just stare at a person and not think ‘hey that could be a dick. It could be _my_ dick. Wouldn’t that be great? Sucking my dick out of a bag, yeah.’

Geoffrey was a little self-conscious because he’d never really had anyone _watch_ him feed. Mortals didn’t really take kindly to watching people hump on each other’s necks let alone ripping jugulars out of people’s necks. And Geoffrey took great trouble in removing himself from society when he was falling prey to his own need for prey. Even if they were only Skaal he still couldn’t allow the society relying on him to curb the vampire scourge to know he was just one of the vampire boys.

‘Hey, Geoffrey McCullum’s drinking the blood from his enemies!’

‘Oh yeah my trust in him has hit the roof.’

‘I have never felt safer than I do now having witnessed the leader of the Guard of Priwen drink blood.’

Geoffrey tried to drink the blood outside of Jonathan’s line of sight but it was hard to do when Jonathan was smack bang in the middle of your foreground, background and everythefuckwhereground. He tried looking away from Jonathan while he drank but with Jonathan you could feel the motherfuckers eyeballs shooting out of their sockets and essentially sliding their corneas all over Geoffrey’s back and lathering eye slime all over him.

“Do you mind?” Geoffrey said dropping the bag to his lap in an exasperated fashion.

“Hmm? Sorry, what?” Jonathan said as he snapped out of whatever trance he had been engaged in.

“It’s bad enough I have to suck blood out of a damn bag, but having you watch me like you’re about to take a bite out of me is making this whole situation harder than it needs to be.” Geoffrey explained.

“Right, yes.” Jonathan cleared his throat, rose from his chair and went around in a circle looking for something to divert his attention from the hot guy drinking blood out of a bag in his bed. It was like a bad pornographic zoetrope wheel, the kind Victorian gentleman whacked off to because their wives were so isolated from the particulars of life and so unprepared for the carnal affairs of marriage that they barely knew what the fuck a dick was let alone where you were supposed to deposit it.

You can imagine their reaction during the consummation of the marriage.

‘The fuck is that shit?! I’ve got to do fucking what?! With my fucking what?! You know I agreed to get married not get fucking drawn and quartered.’

Jonathan distracted himself with the metallic slinky Avery had left in his heroin haze of schooldays. He weighed it with his hands and juggled the toy up and down letting the rings rise and fall like a sort of cocaine-fuelled staircase. He desperately wanted to watch his progeny feed but it was obvious that McCullum was self-conscious about the whole feeding part of Vampirism.

Actually Reid was pretty sure he was self-conscious about the entire caboodle of Vampirism.

“How is it?” Reid asked desperate to fill the silence produced by his weird stalker eye staring contest.

“Fine.” Geoffrey said with a mouth full of blood. The childish sound made Jonathan smile and fell his deadened heart warm with a feeling of tenderness and warmth.

_Holy shit balls it tastes like God._

“I’m glad it isn’t totally offensive.” Jonathan said.

_Fuck me with a flaming fist full of nails this stuff is the shit._

“Not totally I suppose.” Geoffrey wiped a bit of blood from his chin.

_I CAN SEE SOUND AND HEAR PICTURES MOTHERFUCKERS._

“You should be feeling a lot better, you certainly are starting to improve physically.” Jonathan reassured him.

“Yeah, Yeah.” Geoffrey was gorging on the bag, squeezing the bag from the top down to try and squeeze every last drop of blood that he could. It was assuredly empty and had been totally deprived of any liquid it once contained, but this didn’t stop Geoffrey ripping the bag apart with his teeth and licking at the shredded bag like a starving Romanian orphan living in a discarded bag of chips and selling carvings made of old bananas.

_AM I GOD?! I THINK I’M GOD GUYS._

Jonathan knew exactly what his progeny was doing behind his back. He didn’t need eyes on the back of his head to see each and every little detail of Geoffrey’s appreciation of the bag of blood. Jonathan grinned as he toyed with the metallic domestic abuse slinky, he could hear every thought in McCullum’s head, feel every inch of the satisfied monster that was his stomach. There was ecstasy in the shape of a fulfilled beast of hunger. The doctor could hear every wet lick of McCullum’s tongue against the transparent plastic material, followed by a trail of warm saliva as the hunter committed to this fastidious draining of the bag’s contents, or lack thereof.

Jonathan would let McCullum know how much he knew of McCullum’s theatrics behind him because knowing McCullum in his uneasy and nervous state the man would just try and fly out the damn window again like a dick without wings.

So just a normal dick.

Once McCullum had licked every last drop of nutrition in and on the bag he looked to the blood splatter on the wall and almost considered licking the damn wall with his tongue like the plaster structure had paid for his time. it was at that point McCullum got a hold of himself and found his mortal dignity and abandoned the seriously peculiar idea of licking wallpaper like some wallpaper connoisseur.

This wallpaper tastes like nutrition.

“I’m done.” McCullum said as he wiped his mouth and chin to try and reinstate what poise he had before he started drinking blood out of small hospital grade bags.

Jonathan turned around slowly and found his progeny sitting upright with all the composure and bearing of an aristocratic jockey with a stick up its rectal cavity. His hands were placed on his lap and he had covered his legs with the bed linens to try and really drive home that McCullum was no deviant savage.

“Where did you put the bag?” Jonathan asked. “We should dispose of it properly.”

“I threw it away.”

“Where?”

“I just…threw it away.”

“…Yes I get that but where did you throw it away?” Jonathan pushed.

“Look it’s disposed of, gone, nowhere to be found. Stop fussing.”

“What, did you eat the bag too?”

“I-I didn’t fucking eat the bag you prick. What part of I threw it away are you not understanding?” Geoffrey asked furiously blushing.

“The part where you aren’t giving me in detail the whereabouts of the article you threw away.”

“Why does it matter?”

“Because it contained bioorganic matter. It needs to be properly taken care of.”

It was then that a faint male voice from outside the partially open balcony door could be heard from down below.

“Hey look I found this unwanted bag.” The mysterious voice said.

“That is a very damaged bag.” Another voice was added to the conversation.

“Yes, it’s as if the person who discarded the bag was some manner of beast with rows of fangs capable of tearing the bag’s original shape into little more than a assortment of plastic ribbons.”

“It also appears that whatever it’s original contents, it has been cleaned to such a degree that if one reused it there would be a low percentage of contamination or bacterial contagion.”

“Yes, the person who last owned this bag really took great satisfaction in the initial contents that the badly damaged bag enclosed.”

"Tis a good thing we, two random bystanders, happen to walk past this balcony window and come across what might seem to others to be an unordinary, mostly banal object on the street, and then scrutinise every detail of said object aggressively.""Indeed, and I am definitely not furiously tugging at my penis which has been enlarged due to the fact that I have been allowed to examine the one thing that offers me, at once, pleasure and shame as my fetish for discarded plastic bags goes unchecked as I hide it with great ignominy as my family is well-to-do members of society and I am but a stain upon their honour."

Geoffrey had a face on him that would have made women's wombs shrivel and die. It was so sour and spoiled with bitter embarrassment that he reminded one of a child who had been caught rubbing faeces in the face of their sibling in an attempt to pass on their accursed polio.

Jonathan shook his head playfully and offered Geoffrey a warm smile to try and lessen the severity of shame the man was struggling with. “You know you needn’t feel embarrassed to enjoy the things you enjoy.”

“I don’t enjoy it.”

“Its an undeniable truth that Vampires obtain little joy other than that derived from blood drinking. Rather than punish yourself for it you should simply accept it.”

Geoffrey scoffed. “I will never take any joy from drinking blood.”

“And yet the empty bag, totally destroyed bag, says otherwise.”

“It’s a biological instinct. It is the equivalent of sexual intercourse for a priest.”

“They were men before they were priests.” Jonathan said.

“And I was man before I was a vampire.” Geoffrey shot back.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You guys thought I wasn't gonna update huh?
> 
> YEAH. I STILL AINT.
> 
> (AGAIN, DON'T ENJOY. NOT EVEN A LITTLE BIT.)

Jonathan’s hands squeezed into a fist as he gazed upon the unbridled beast that was The West End theatre belonging to Doris: The megalomaniac actress turned arm extraordinaire and bowling choice for the local cricket team. And yet another citizen of London who tried to climb into Jonathan Reid’s trousers. Because it seemed to be a truly common occurrence wherein members of society, at once, tried to rent lodgings in Jonathan’s pants. Even before setting herself alight like a mad thing, Doris had asked if Reid found her appeasing and if Reid found her attractive and whether a relationship might be a viable option between them.

Of course Reid basically explained ‘yeah, nah.’ To the poor creature and she at once set herself on fire because, yeah, that’s a reasonable response to rejection.

It seemed that women alike had a nasty habit of setting themselves on fire where Reid was concerned. 

First Doris and then Elisabeth.

It was truly a testament to Jonathan’s existence that his very being was enough to persuade others into committing arson against their own persons. Whether it was a gift or a curse, or both, who could say? All that was known was that Jonathan was so hot it set women alight with passion and zeal.

The theatre had been converted into the headquarters of The Guard of Priwen after McCullum and his gang had stormed the place during the epidemic in an attempt to catch Reid under the assumption that he was the catalyst of the whole epidemic. Reasoning based entirely on the fact the man appeared to always be at the epicentre of each incident associated with this vampire plague. It didn’t help Jonathan was a doctor and a vampire. Those two things only strengthened the basis on which the argument was built.

A vampire doctor? Christ almighty, imagine all the bad the leech could do? Save people’s lives more efficiently than if he were human? Superhuman senses allowing him a more proficient way in which to pinpoint maladies and faults in the human system? Fuck me; we must put an end to his savage mentality!

Why was Jonathan here of all places?

Like all good things it started as terrible as it did end well. After McCullum’s revival at the hands of the good doctor Jonathan Reid, McCullum proceeded to do what all good things do after being revived from near oblivion.

Act like a total cock.

After McCullum had finished being an absolute horror in response to his improved health. And after Jonathan had prevented the man from trying to escape via floor and then balcony window, Jonathan had stated that McCullum should stay under supervision by a medical practitioner. 

Of course this physician being Jonathan himself.

After McCullum said a handful of colourful statements in his loveable, roguish like Irish accent, of which half Jonathan couldn’t understand shit cause the Irish accent under duress with the addition of cussing makes it near impossible to translate, the hunter attempted to throw himself out the window again in hopes of catching Jonathan off guard as Avery appeared out of the nether world and offered the boys shortbread biscuits baked fresh by the butler himself. Unfortunately, due to Heroin intoxication, the shortbread was little more than a loaf of bread baked in an oven to the point of looking like someone was doing arts and crafts with Indian ink and a loaf of bread.

Everyone went hungry.

McCullum didn’t get far as Jonathan already figured what the hunter would try the moment his back was turned. After being thrown back in bed a second time McCullum gave in. But then requested that he would need a few things from the headquarters to make his stay more comfortable.  
Because it isn’t convalescing unless you have the arsenal from home snug under your pillow in case war breaks out in your part of the ward and your separated from the guns and knives in the hospital armoury.

To this, McCullum suddenly smirked and crossed his arms to which Jonathan’s stomach suddenly dropped and knew that whatever McCullum was going to ask him to do would probably be a really, really bad idea to do it.

Like ‘Go die’ bad idea. 

Like ‘Go shoot yourself in the face’ bad idea.

Like ‘Hey looks there’s Dispholidus Typus, commonly referred to as the boomslang snake, over there hanging out in sub-Saharan Africa. Let’s go fuck around with it till it bites us, injects it’s venom which is a hemotoxin, causing the complete destruction of red blood cells and subsequent organ and tissue failure and preventing blood clotting. This means you will indefinitely bleed out of every orifice and every pore until you perish from severe haemorrhaging’ bad idea. 

So McCullum told Jonathan that if he made his way to the theatre, went straight into the heart of the place and retrieved his things, without, and this must be stressed, without his men killing him (you see, very important part of this entire shitshow) then McCullum would allow the doctor to treat him and he would do so willingly.

What did Jonathan Reid do?

He fucking said yes. Christ what else would he do?

And thus we find Jonathan Reid, Vampire, Doctor, and visionary blood transfusion expert, and soon to be expired and forgotten about, hanging outside the headquarters of his most potent enemy: The Guard of Priwen.

Essentially, a bunch of dudes hanging out in a run down theatre.

It was kind of gay, at the heart of it.

Jonathan scouted out the place before just throwing himself headfirst into the fray. He’d be an idiot to just walk into the lair of the enemy and be like ‘hey guys, all good if I just walk in and take some shit?’

Jonathan watched guard rotations and sentry movement in order to precisely map out an entry point by which he could avoid most of the fighting. He didn’t take pleasure in killing members of the Guard of Priwen. Yes they were misguided and a bit racist but they honestly thought they were doing God’s work and aiding society and ridding it of the vampire menace. Yes some vampires were a bunch of bloodsucking dicks but most wanted simply to live without making too much controversy in the manner of which they lived. They were creatures of the night, and like the night they gloried in shade and shadow and detested the rays of attention. The moon only burned because of the suns unyielding addiction to setting others alight. Were the sun absent, the moon itself would appear to be very much the same. But it was always there, always orbiting the earth like a skulking, celestial phantasm that wanted nothing more than to watch but not be watched. And the moon’s children, the vampire, they too only burned because men thrust them into the light by force.

And what can a nocturnal creature do but fight the light in order to retain the night?

There was a problem though.

As Jonathan watched the guards, the way they patrolled was without order or reason. Some went right, others went left, then they’d go one way, stop, as if they’d forgotten something and go back the way they came. Some guards didn’t come back at all. Others were hanging on to other guards and then making out behind the building. It was seriously fucked up and Jonathan couldn’t make heads or tails of it.

It was like this beast had ten tails and all the heads were up it’s sixteen buttholes.

Jonathan scratched his head and wasn’t entirely sure how to go about doing this. It was when the guard traffic seemed to suddenly disappear near the back way of the theatre that Jonathan finally decided to make a move and take whatever opening he could find. He jumped around the building, climbed up to the steps leading to the back door which seemed to be prioritised for workmen or stage hands, opened the door ever so quietly and checked for any Guards prowling about.

Jonathan used his senses to check through the building and the telltale spider web circulatory systems hummed and throbbed with life and liquor, especially in one guard stumbling about the basement.

Unfortunately Jonathan didn’t have eyes in the back of his head and the rear of him was completely neglected. 

“Hey.” Jonathan tensed, his ears prickled, the hairs on his body went stiff and upright and he was almost immediately shocked by the casual declaration of ‘hey’.

Usually in these circumstances Jonathan would have paralysed the man by controlling the blood flow and then thrown a well of shadow at his face and watch everything go boom. But in this instance the casual notion of ‘hey’ put Jonathan totally off kilter.

So Jonathan turned around, body stiff as a ruler and came face to face with his ‘hey’ voice.

The two stared straight at each other and Jonathan blinked, hand still tightly wound around the silver doorknob and seemingly trying to look shady as fuck on purpose. It was a Guard of Priwen no doubt. The usual rouged up fellow with a baton at his side and a pistol in his holster. The only thing missing was a look of intent to kill on his face.

What did Jonathan do?

“Hey…” Jonathan said meekly as if he were trying to make it look less like he was breaking in.

The guard scratched his nose and the bored look on his face and awry collar gave Jonathan the impression that the man had just come back from lunch.

Or sex.

Probably both.

Lunch sex.

Yeah, that.

“You uh, trying to break in or what?” The guard asked while he picked his nose.

“Uh…it would…seem…so?” Jonathan was very unsure as to how to approach this. His gentleman half said be a fucking gentleman you dick and the rational half said ‘fuck this guy up.’

“Riiiight. You could try using the front door. That would work too.” The guard stated as he inspected the debris on his finger then promptly ate it. “You that doctor guy, aint ya?” the guard asked pointing his booger finger at Reid who unconsciously looked at it with revulsion. 

“Yes. Erm. That would be me. Jonathan Reid.”

“Hey didn’t you do some blood thingy? Like…what’s it called…?”

“Blood transfusion.” Jonathan said.

“Yeah that’s it! Blood transnuclear fusion.”

“Transfusion.”

“Transgender.”

“Transfusion.”

“Transfats.”

“Transfusion.”

“Trans-Atlantic.”

“…Sure.” Jonathan gave up.

“So uh, how come you trying to get in here anyway? You wanna join? Can’t say having a famous doctor person like you wouldn’t hurt!” The guard slapped Jonathan on the back and laughed. “Seeing as we get hurt a lot round here. Shot and stuff. And killed.” The guard added.

“I can’t heal dead people.” Jonathan pointed out.

“Ah, aint that a kick in the testicles? Doctor’s all about healing but he can’t bring a dead person back to life. Total paradox, that.” The man mused.

“I don’t think that’s…”

“Hey!” a voice called up from below. Jonathan looked down in fear and spotted another guard calling out to his fellow Guard.

“Yeah?! What you want Dave?!” the guard called back.

“Who’s that with you?!” The guard below cried.

“A famous doctor!”

“A doctor?! You sick or something?!”

“I’m always sick you prick. I got terminal cancer!”

“Terminal? What’s that mean?”

“It means no doctor can help me!”

“If that’s the case why you with a doctor?!”

“He aint here with me. He’s trying to break in!”

“As in entering without permission?!”

“What else you think break in means?!”

“What’s his name then?! If he’s famous what’s his name?!”

“Jonathan Reid!!”

“Jonathan Reid?! You idiot, him’s a leech!”

“Ey…wait a minute aint you a leech?” The guard said turning back to Reid with a curious look on his face.

“Uh…well…that is to say…” Jonathan would have reached for his sword and protracted his blood stealing claws but for some reason the fact the guards’ first response to the knowledge of Jonathan being a vampire wasn’t ‘grab out a stake and go uncoordinated spider with tourettes on his ass’. It was actually ask Jonathan if the knowledge about his undead state was true or not.

Shit was getting weirder by the minute.

Fuck if turning into a bat wouldn’t be and awesome option as of right now.

“So I take it Vampires don’t know how to open doors then huh?” The guard asked kindly as he took the doorknob from Jonathan and opened the door completely inviting the good doctor in with a hand gesture and a smile.

Jonathan wasn’t exactly sure what to do or what to say.

Had Avery shot him up with heroin too?

Cause if he had it made this whole infiltration shit way easier than it should be.

Jonathan was desperate to get a word in edgewise to help him in properly understanding what the holy fuckaroo was going on. They said curiosity killed the cat and the term might very well apply to him in this situation but being a knowledge hungry character with a penchant for random acts of kindness pushed Jonathan to ask those questions people rarely asked due to unforseen consequences, most of them bad.  
But he had to know.

“Excuse me.” Jonathan said facing the Guard who looked at him quizzically. “But, as your fellow Guard stated I am indeed a vampire. A leech, if you will. Generally, this being your job and all, you would make all the indications of the intent to cause me harm. Specifically death. But…you are not doing any of this. May I ask why this is the case?” Jonathan asked the man in as polite way as possible to try and lessen whatever hurt was coming his way. But the man scratched his head and looked around awkwardly as though he were embarrassed.

“Yeah I guess normally I would attack you but…well it’s…to be honest I’m off duty and I have completely checked out.” The guard explained. “Like…I could not even be bothered to stare at you with evil intent upon your life. I can barely pick up my baton let alone beat you black and blue with it. Seriously though, I just want to go home, put up my uniform, eat some flour, have a pint, try to sleep with my wife which will only result in her describing the myriad ways in which she hates my guts and then cry deeply onto my dick and use my tears as lubricant and masturbate on my lonely side of the bed in a state of sorrow and regret at the mess I’ve made of this thing I call a life, you get me right?” the guard inquired.

Jonathan blinked. “Sure. Sure I get you.” He lied, quite obviously. He had never once used his tears as lubricant for self inflicted pleasure upon his penis.

“Well. There ya go. An answer to your question. Now go on, infiltrate at your liking and believe you me I am not going to lift a finger to stop you good sir.”

The man again gestured to Reid to enter into the headquarters. Jonathan thanked the man (awkwardly of course) walked in, hesitantly at first but when he swiftly turned around expecting a stake to the back, only to be greeted with a kind smile offered by the red faced Guard who had totally checked out of his shift but held the door open willingly. Jonathan smiled awkwardly back and straightened up and tried to compose himself. He was in the belly of the beast having been welcomed in by the fucking mouth of the beast, the whole thing was some stupid heroin induced nightmare or something equally frightening.

“You wanna see the lieutenant. I aint got any title here, just a simpleton. So I would say head downstairs to the main office area. McCullum’s not here, probably out killing Skaals, but the lieutenant will have what you need.”

The guard offered him a goodbye and shut the door. Jonathan was left askance and confused.

There wasn’t anyone else around and he could hear nothing but soft murmurs from people in the entrance hall. The place didn’t feel like foreboding and it had since been cleaned up and scrubbed clean of the blood of previous deaths. It looked a pretty decent place aside from the multitude of Vampire extermination paraphernalia. Jonathan composed himself, straightened his tie and readjusted his collar so he looked a bit less like he had just tried to infiltrate a place while flying through the fucking ether like a glorious black swan clad in stars.

He did, though, maintain a hand over his weaponry. The strange behaviour of the guards, the odd warm welcome could have been ruses. A trap may very well be waiting for him but the social dialogue between the two guards seemed not overly organised and contrived to be part of some subterfuge.   
At the least Jonathan would remain wary and always ready for a fight.

Jonathan knew his way around the place pretty well, having gone through it a multitude of times. 

First time to find Doris and a second time to find Edgar.

This was the place you went when you lost your fucking keys.

Or you’re Edgar, apparently. Which was like your keys but with legs and a coat.

Jonathan made his way down towards the basement part of the building where the stage was situated and where the dressing rooms had their place. As he went through the converted building it was obvious the guards had really made an effort in renovating it. The wallpaper looked fresh and so did the paint. You wouldn’t know it but The Guard of Priwen were actually pretty decent where interior decorating was concerned. 

Jonathan made no contact with any other Guard. He reached the office room and was faced with a shut door. He hesitated at first, used his sight to check for living persons and there were only two beating hearts. They seemed to be in a calm and stable state. Not agitated as if they were expecting a war to come bursting through the door. They seem preoccupied in conversation.

Jonathan took a step forward, tapped on the door with his knuckles and the two figures stopped calmly. One walked to the door and opened it with gusto.

“Yeah?” The moustachioed Guard asked, wearing a loose shirt and some overalls like he had just finished work and was about to party with a warm cup of cocoa and his wife.

Dunk his wife in the cup of cocoa and you have a paaaaaartay.

The man behind him sat at the desk in the middle of the room, no doubt McCullum’s sanctum of governing, smoking a cigar like there wasn’t a care in his world.

“I was told to come find the lieutenant…?” Jonathan said trying to sound competent and confident like he’d come here with absolute, concentrated meaning.

“Yeah. That’s us.” The two men exchanged glances and then shrugged. “Come in.” The man with the moustache opened the door wide and Jonathan walked in with a look of wonder on his face. Jonathan looked around the room and it oozed of McCullum’s personality. There were maps of London and the West End particularly and there were small notes detailing citizens comings and goings and there were also pictures of potential vampire persons of interest with a list exhibiting each persons activities and whether the accumulation of collected data pointed to Vampire activity. The room was sparsely furnished. An oak table in the middle of the room with a plush red chair, on it sat a Guard wearing a uniform which was better tailored than the Guards Jonathan came into contact with on the streets. The common breed of Guard, you could call them. 

The man seated at the desk looked every bit the sort of person you leave in charge of an organisation that was built on the basis of exterminating a subspecies of human.

His face was scarred, not so heavily as McCullum’s but enough so to know he earned his job like he earned his scars. They were obviously claw marks from Vampire fingernails and the wrinkles on his face spoke of many a time of stress and worry.

“So.” The man at the desk sighed. “I take it George let you in then?”

“If you mean the man at the back door…”

“Fucking George.” Deskman said shaking his head. 

“I told you we should have made his shift longer.” Moustachioed man said as he took a seat beside the wall of evidence.

“Every motherfucking time. He does this every time. Did he say his shift was over?” Deskman asked Jonathan as the poor doctor stood in the middle of the room looking like a whale in a dolphin pod. 

“Something like that.”

“Fuck that guy.” Deskman said. 

“Did he mention crying on his own dick?” Moustache man asked smirking.

Jonathan stared at the man. “I take it this happens a lot.”

“Too often, you might say. I mean I get, theoretically, his shift ending means he doesn’t have to do his job. But at least have the courtesy not to just completely disregard ethical conduct. Just cause you aren’t on the clock anymore doesn’t mean you just let whatever hobo-my apologies as I do not know if you are in a state of vagrancy- in from off the streets. I mean Christ, have a little bit of principle for fucks sake!”

“I hate to say I told you so but I told you so.” Moustache said shaking his head.

“You never told me so. Not once have you ever let me know that George was a piece of shit. Not once.”

“Pretty sure I did. Told you, like, twice.”

“I remember none of this. Look.” Desk man let his head fall in an attempt to loosen his worries but it little else other than making him look headless were you looking at him from behind. “I don’t know who you are, but you really shouldn’t be here. But since McCullum isn’t here and technically I’m in charge-.”

“We.” Moustache added. “We are in charge.”

“Okay, for the record you are not in charge.” Deskman turned back to Jonathan. “He is not in charge. McCullum only said you could help me so you’d shut your whore mouth for five minutes because, I’ll be honest here, listening to you whine is enough to make an alcoholic out of an unborn child. There’s no need for life’s collective let downs to push you to the bottle, you’re voice is enough on it’s own. That doesn’t give you any power whatsoever. Yeah, I get it, you have a moustache, but that don’t mean you have the wherewithal to pull off that moustache. You don’t wear the moustache, the moustache wears you and that moustache is wearing you like a pig wears pearls. No one questions the pearls; it’s the pig wearing them that makes them ask why. Consider him a glorified clerk or whatever.” Deskman said to Jonathan completely disregarding the fellow in the corner who had just been verbally smashed.

“We’re sort of tag teaming this lieutenant job you see.” Moustache said in eternal hope. “Like we tag team the hoes.” He threw a hand out to high five his lieutenant but all he got was an icy stare for his effort. “We have fun.” Moustached finally said when it was obvious there was no high five to be had.

Jonathan raised his eyebrows in shock. “You…you’re just going to let me hang around. With no interest in who or what I am?”

“Oh fuck.” The lieutenant literally threw his arms onto the desk.

“What?” Moustached asked the lieutenant.

“George let in a fucking leech. Is that right?” 

“Why would you think that?” Moustache asked confused.

“Cause, fuck face, he said ‘what’. As in what manner of organism he might be.”

“Ohhhh.” Moustache said in understanding.

“Great. Well. Welcome into the lair of The Guard of Priwen…I guess.” The Lieutenant said in a manner that made it seem like he’d given up all hope in trying. “Make yourself at home…ugh.”

Jonathan took a chair that had been pushed aside towards the wall of the room and placed it a few centimetres away from the desk. He shuffled into it to make himself comfortable even though being in the bowels of his worst enemy was the least bit comforting.

“I have to admit I’m a bit surprised at the state of the organisation tonight.” Jonathan said.

“What organisation?” The lieutenant mumbled into the desk.

“Exactly.” Jonathan said. “The guard rotation outside is a bit…of a shambles. And a number of your men are…indulging in…activities not entirely of the professional sort.”

“Oh fan-fucking-tastic. So what, everyone’s just whipping out their dick and rubbing it against the building?”

“Not precisely, but close enough I suppose.” Jonathan said uncomfortably.

“Whenever McCullum leaves for an extended period everyone here gets a bit lazy.” Moustache said chuckling to himself. 

“Rubbing their dicks on buildings lazy.” The lieutenant mumbled into the desk.

“Well speaking of McCullum, he is the reason I am here.” Jonathan said.

“Oh really? And who are you to McCullum?” The Lieutenant asked.

“My name is Jonathan Reid. I’m a doctor.” Jonathan explained.

“Oh shit. You’re Jonathan Reid?” Moustache asked taken aback as the two men got to their feet in shock.

“I am.”

“Well fuck.” The Lieutenant said wiping his brow. The two men began to look Jonathan up and down and then repeating the gesture again and again. They then looked at each other as if under some kind of understanding each other’s soundless signals. “So. You two bone yet?” The Lieutenant asked as if it were the most boring thing in the world.

Jonathan was taken aback. He looked at the man as though he’d just inquired to whether He’d stuck his penis inside McCullum.  
Oh.

Right.

He did.

“I beg your pardon…?” Jonathan said doing his best to think the question as an outrageous idea.

“Jesus, Lieutenant. You can’t just ask such a personal question.”

“Why worry? Everything else here is going to shit in this here dumpster fire.”

“Still…But…in all actuality are you guys boning yet?” Moustache asked as he shuffled his chair and consequently himself on the chair closer to Jonathan in a childlike manner.

“…Yet?” Jonathan was confused.

“Seeing as we’re just throwing away our responsibilities and conduct we might as well just be blatantly honest. We all know McCullum’s a leech. I mean, it’s hard not to notice his nocturnal schedule and his dislike of mornings. And days. And afternoons. You don’t hide that kind of shit from anyone no matter how much effort you put into it.”

“And he looks sick as fuuuuuuck.” Moustache added.

“I see.” Jonathan said. “That explains an unrelated thing but I’m still confused about your…question about coitus between McCullum and myself.”  
The two men looked at Jonathan as if he had just said the stupidest and most ridiculous thing since the moment man threw an arm out and gained purchase from the primordial ooze.

“You serious right now?” The Lieutenant asked.

“I’m afraid so.”

“…Soooo I have to spell it out? Great. Just another cherry on top of this dumpster fire. Well, here goes. You fine as hell.” The lieutenant said bluntly. “I mean, I’m a strictly heterosexual man but even I would try my luck and ask if you were interested in throwing your sausage against the walls of my sewage system.”

“Well. I’m…flattered?” Jonathan was a little confused because the man was a gentleman and a doctor. A rectum being described as a sewage system was a little out of his jurisdiction. 

“Fuck me.” The Lieutenant bemoaned. “A little help here Baker?” he turned to his colleague.

“Uh, yeah sure um. So. I guess…” Baker looked Jonathan up and down taking in as much detail of the finer points of his external features and aesthetic qualities. “For example the way your thick black hair appears to be haphazardly tousled upon the crown of your head as if you did not care but in actual fact I’m sure you took great care to make it seem so careless. Also your…what 6 foot 5?”

“6 foot 10.” Jonathan corrected him.

“I’m swooning.” The Lieutenant said waving his collar.

“I, too, am swooning.” Baker replied. “And the manner in which you have compiled your wardrobe. It is simple but elegant and speaks of high class breeding and an understanding of the finer points of style without needless complications such as accessories and the like.”

“Basically you look rich, and that is attractive to anyone who likes eating.” The lieutenant added.

“Also you can’t forget to mention the facial hair.” Moustache added.

“You’re beard.”

“Yes. It is thick and full and offers much in the way of exhibiting alpha male status and exhibits a high concentration of testosterone, which is alluring to anyone looking for a mate. One feels that you will protect them and take care of them. Shelter them under the great girth of your beard like one shelters from a magnificent storm threatening life and limb.” Baker explained.

Jonathan was, understandably, taken aback and totally out of his depth. He wasn’t use to a veritable panel of judges picking out each aspect of his external features and then describing every small facet and then going to great pains to explain why something made people go splooge over you.  
Jonathan had come to The Guard of Priwen to infiltrate their base of operations and collect McCullum’s things without dying, which were McCullum’s parameters for him staying under Jonathan’s watchful doctor’s eye while he convalesced, but instead Jonathan had received a warm welcome and then been given meticulously exhaustive information about how hot he was.

He must have been super high on the heroine.

“I’m not entirely sure what to say.” Jonathan said honestly.

“Just don’t say thankyou or otherwise we’re all gonna need a towel.” The Lieutenant said. “Look, McCullum's got a hate boner for you. I've never seen him pursue anyone like the way in which he pursued you. I mean a guy doesn't learn how to operate a fucking lighting trap on some god forsaken hospital roof unless they have a true hate boner. Look, forget about it, you said McCullum sent you here?”

“Yes.”

“So I take it he really did take our advice and went to see a doctor.” Baker said tapping his elbow.

“How is he?”

“He’s weak from undernourishment and exhaustion but he’s stable.” Jonathan explained. “Is it true he wont drink human blood?”

“Yeah I’d imagine so. And considering the literature we have on vampires I imagine that is the reason behind the problem?”

“Very much so.”

“Christ.” The lieutenant grumbled. “You going to kick him up the arse?”

“You…don’t have a problem with him feeding on humans?” Jonathan asked.

“Look. McCullum’s our leader; he’s the reason we all joined. He gave us a way to live without resorting to criminal activity. Sure, we hunt your kind to the ends of the earth but since McCullum’s change in nature and his devotion to our cause despite that, I guess I have to wonder if all leeches are the same devilish scum we expect. If McCullum can maintain his morals then maybe other leeches can too. And so I ask you, Jonathan Reid, are you one of those leeches?”

“I would like to believe I am.”

“It isn’t good enough to believe, are you or are you not?” The Lieutenant pushed.

“I am.” Jonathan said confidently.

The door to the office slammed open without warning and a guard who was completely inebriated wobbled inside like a toddler still trying to learn how to walk, for what were infants but small drunk people? The man was wearing nothing but an oversized shirt and a belt tied around his waist in a sloppy way. It looked like the next worst thing in fashion to befall them since the corset’s conception.

Cause apparently fuck breathing and fuck air.

Also fuck proper bone structure, who needs that shit? I want my ribs shooting up out my oesophagus.

The man was a brilliantly red in the face and his hair looked like someone had combed it with a tornado. He wobbled even though he was standing on two feet, his body swaying to and fro like a weak tree in the arms of a storm suffering from Parkinson’s. 

The man was very drunk, obviously.

“Hey guys!” the man slurred. “I found the boozy joozy even though you tried to hide it!!!” as he talked his voice rose in pitch to the point of sounding like nails on a chalkboard, a bottle of half drunk alcohol swinging along with the inebriated sway of the hand holding it.

“Oh fuck, I thought someone was watching Barry!? Who the fuck was supposed to be watching him?! How’d he get into the booze?! Jesus fucking Christ this is a total shitshow! You know Barry’s going cold turkey!!” The Lieutenant roared.

“Don’t scream at me it wasn’t my job!” Baker complained as the drunk Barry rushed out of the room, arms flailing behind him in a sort of comedic expression of escape leaving the Lieutenant hanging to the door frame, watching the man run away and getting antsy as he appeared to desperately want to catch the drunk fool. 

“Damnit, if McCullum finds out we’re fucked. Baker, I’m going to go catch Barryy and beat the booze out of his face if I have to. Just give Mr Reid what he needs but nothing more. Don’t be dick and give him the fucking pot of King Arthur’s blood, you got that? Cause you better fucking wish you were dead if I find the pot of blood involved in some Vampire orgy!” The lieutenant rushed out the door screaming after drunk Barry, who, even though he had gotten some ways away, could still be heard crying out to fellow Guards about the ‘Booze Jooze’. Jonathan was left alone in the room with Baker and his moustache. Baker sighed and looked up at Jonathan seemingly looking into the man’s very pores.

“Do vampires suck blood out of peoples dicks?” Baker asked.

“…Wait, what?” fuck this whole organisation, Jonathan thought.

“Someone in the Guard told me vampires suck blood out of dicks. Seeing as you’re a vampire is it true?” Baker asked again.

“…You’re asking me if I have extracted blood from a man's genitals?”

“The dick specifically. I figured the balls were just full of sperm.”

“…So I have a list of things McCullum requested. If you could just help me gather them that would be appreciated.” Jonathan was actively avoiding the man’s strange question for good reason. He’d never once drunk blood from someone’s penis seeing as most of the people he drank from were caught by surprise. The neck could be accessed far easier seeing as it was almost always never covered and always accessible whatever the range or angle. It was infinitely harder to drink blood from someone’s dick seeing as it took a great deal of manoeuvring and tactics to get onto someone’s dick without their knowing of it happening. Jonathan himself had never heard of any vampire extracting blood from people’s crotches before. But he wasn’t exactly privy to all the dinner etiquette of those other vampires stalking about London. It wasn’t like they were holding sexy vampire parties with bowls of blood punch and a room for the ladies to take their drug paraphernalia and shoot themselves up with heroin, which was the norm for ladies of society since being a woman in Victorian England sucked a whole bag of dicks and then some.

It hadn’t even crossed Jonathan’s mind to think of vampires sinking their fangs into people’s dicks. But now since Baker had put it into his head he was suddenly infused with immeasurable curiosity, which both made him embarrassed and somewhat excited with the possibilities of this novel way in which to extract dick blood.

Would it taste different?

Holy shit what the literal fuck was Jonathan thinking about? 

Fuck the Guard of Priwen. And not because they weren’t trying to kill him presently.

Baker took Jonathan into McCullum’s private living quarters, which were small to say the least, even for a leader of glorified murderers living in a dramatic theatre. 

There was a single bed covered with a threadbare mattress and it was obvious there had been no effort in having it made. The corner of the duvet thrown to the side as if McCullum had just gotten out of the bed invigorated by the idea of killing immortal hell spawn that making the bed was too time wasting of a thing to do. A few shelves lined the walls and a number of books occupied the space.

It was nothing to truly revel in but there was a certain charm to the room that was quintessentially McCullum. Rough around the edges and seemingly ordinary but take a look at the particulars hidden in the cracks and the small spaces and one could find a wealth of knowledge and intricacies that the rather sparsely decorated quarters belied. Jonathan smiled as he took in the sights and smells of McCullum’s frugal bedroom. Jonathan now had to wonder what McCullum was feeling at this very moment living in a room where one might throw a cat comfortably around without having to worry over disturbing furniture. What psychopath out there would actually use a cat to emphasise space and size in such a way only god knew because it must have been some truly fucked up intelligent being that gave opposable thumbs to fucktards with a penchant for athletics involving cats.

There was a masculine charm and grace to the Spartan nature of the bedroom that made Jonathan want to stand in the middle of these private chambers and take in all the minute details that made this the space of Geoffrey McCullum, leader of The Guard of Priwen and reluctant vampire who drank blood out of a bag with a straw.

“This is very McCullum.” Jonathan said softly, as if afraid to wake the beast hiding in the wall.

“What? Covered in wood?” Moustache asked confused as he looked around the room with a scrunched up look on his face.

“No I mean…never mind.” Jonathan disregarded trying to approach Moustache with some sort of finer intelligence and gave the man McCullum’s list of belongings that he required in order to live comfortably at Jonathan’s mansion.

Which, when reviewing the statement, seemed sort of absurd seeing as McCullum’s bedroom compared to Jonathan’s was essentially a closet for swamp monsters.

Which one could argue McCullum was, in-fact, a swamp monster in his own charming way.

Moustache grabbed the small collection of belongings into the grey bag Jonathan had supplied himself with for the purposes of spiriting the objects away. A Toothbrush, a jar of hair grease and a hairbrush was all McCullum had asked for. Jonathan had told McCullum that he already had all these specific items in his own home and that he had free use of them but McCullum apparently was a bit of a mysophobic. That is, he was extremely weary of using grooming items belonging to someone else for fear of contamination. When Jonathan told the man he could just buy him some new ones McCullum refused in his usual aggressively stubborn manner and said there was no need for such unnecessary spending of funds for things he already had.  
Jonathan soon realised, when he had struck a deal with swampy-McCullum- monster in regards to Reid successfully entering and leaving the Priwen headquarters with life and limb intact, that it wasn’t so much the objects McCullum was so concerned for but it was the way in which they were retrieved and who it was, specifically, that was doing the retrieving of said items.

Jonathan agreed because he was a doctor and because it was McCullum who was asking.

And doctor’s stuck their hands up peoples crotches on a regular basis. So sticking their hands up places that no hand should really be up was kind of a thing doctors wouldn’t shy away from. A bit like a lion tamer sticking his head in the lion’s open maw.

If babies and pooh and pee shot out the lions mouth at regular intervals owing to mastication of organic products providing nutrition inhaled by it’s butt side of it’s body.

The whole thing makes no sense, ultimately.

Moustache had no problem locating each item successfully and without much fuss or rummaging owing to the fact there were few things to rummage through.

All McCullum’s grooming products were located at his basin held up by a wooden table with a hole in its surface fitted with a porcelain sink. McCullum might have not seemed the tidiest individual in the world but he certainly had everything in its messy little place. And yes, Moustache did try and put the holy pot of Kind Arthur’s blood into Jonathan’s bag, but Jonathan being Jonathan he politely refused the gilded ceramic pot of blood and reminded the man that this was exactly what the lieutenant had told him not to do. Moustache reacted with confusion and told Jonathan he was pretty sure this was exactly what the Lieutenant had told him to do.

Jonathan tried to explain but Moustache seemed incapable of higher thought so the good doctor took charge and physically removed the pot from the Guard and placed it back on the altar behind the curtain at the far end of the room and made sure to insist over and over again that the pot remain where it was. Jonathan then bid adieu to Facial hair guy and closed the door while he watched the Guard carefully so as to make sure he didn’t make even a twitch towards the altar.

Jonathan checked his bag, which contained all of McCullum’s personal belongings to make sure Moustache hadn’t, somehow someway, ferreted King Arthurs blood into the bag. Of course, owing to certain constraints of physical law and reality, there was no vessel of the dead kings blood to be found in the bag. Jonathan sighed with relief and looked up as if to thank some benevolent force that had aided in his not ending up with a huge holy pot of blood that he did not want.

Because it was one thing to return to McCullum alive and well, it was a whole other thing returning with The Guard of Priwens sacred relic stuffed in a bag next to McCullum’s hair wax and toothbrush. No doubt Jonathan would be impaled through the anus and decorating his front lawn with his naked, skewered body much to the delight of neighbours and passersby alike. 

“Oh I adore the Reid’s new centrepiece! Have you seen? It’s a delight, truly!”

“Yes the red from the ruptured anus dripping down the spear is a true work of art! Such contrast between the red and green!”

No it would not do for Jonathan’s ruptured anus to be on display to all of the well-bred occupants of West End. But, if ever there was a way to present you’re ass to someone, such as Geoffrey McCullum, then that was the way to do it.

Jonathan got back home, in one piece, asshole and all. He saw the balcony door was open a touch and immediately thought Geoffrey had tricked him and fled once again. But when he jumped onto the balcony, pushed aside the curtains and saw that the bed was not absent it’s patient, who was currently occupied with watching the slinky fall to it’s death from the side of the bed in a very disgraceful manner. Jonathan watched with a grin as the great Geoffrey McCullum was failing in making the toy work in a way in which it was not meant to. He was getting frustrated, his nose bunching up in disgust and aggression as the slinky refused to tumble down the bed from such a height like the graceful metal staircase monstrosity that it was. Apparently McCullum didn’t know that the slinky was intended to move down from low heights. Not from significant heights of a metre or so. And even though it was quite obvious the slinky was not going to slink down the bed, McCullum was adamant in making it work.

Typical Priwen Guard, adamant in getting things and people to do things they were not naturally predisposed to do.

At least not in the manner they were accustomed to.

Like getting a slinky to gracefully bend backwards down a bed without so much as a metal ring out of place.

When Jonathan walked in and Geoffrey looked up in wonder and awe at him seeming so utterly without wound or injury or even a piece of his clothing wrinkled or out of shape, he thought about how the damn slinky wouldn’t fall down the bed like a fucking swan, the way he wanted it to. 

“Did you send me there to fail or succeed, I wonder?” Jonathan said as he sauntered inside like a champion.

**Author's Note:**

> So I suck at the grammar and the editing. You wanna fight me? Let's do it. After school, behind the gym.


End file.
